Dinner in Paris
by nuqneh
Summary: Irene shows up at the flat with a small baby, claiming its Sherlock's but that she can no longer keep it. Sherlock and John become parents, and growing up at 221B Baker Street is certainly a unique experience. A Parent!Lock story, but no fluff and no slash, I tried to keep everyone in character. Rated T for adult themes.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock was toweling off after his shower when he realized he wasn't alone in the flat. John was at work, and besides, he knew it wasn't John. There were no John-like sounds: no typing on the computer, no banging around the kitchen for the tea kettle, no inane shows on the telly. Sherlock dropped his towel on the floor and stuck his head out of the bathroom door. He hadn't heard the intruder come up the stairs because of his shower. Silently he crept down the hall to the living room. He saw the intruder sitting in an armchair, looking at something on the floor.

"A little early for dinner, ins't it?" Sherlock said as he strode into his living room.

"Yet you seem to have dressed for it." Irene smirked at him as she uncrossed her shapely legs and stood up from the armchair. "Unfortunately, I don't have time for dinner today. I just came to bring you…a gift."

Irene leaned over to pick up something from behind the armchair. She came up with a bundle of blankets, which she carried over to Sherlock. As she walked towards him he saw a small baby wrapped in them.

"I named him Hamish," she said quietly. "It just seemed like the right name."

Irene pressed the baby into Sherlock's chest, and he had no choice but to take it in his arms. Hamish was asleep, and only squirmed a little as Sherlock took him.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" Sherlock asked, glaring at Irene.

"Remember when we caught that jewel thief in Paris together last year? It was an exciting case. We had dinner to celebrate," Irene smiled seductively at the memory, but she became serious as she continued. "Then nine months later I had Hamish."

"What?!" Sherlock did not like what she was implying. He was trying to look for clues, but Irene was as enigmatic as ever. After all this time he still couldn't deduce her. And the tiny baby had no clues about him at all either. All he could tell was the blue blanket he was wrapped in was new. He hated not having any data. "What are you talking about?"

Irene sighed and brushed Sherlock's wet curls back from his forehead. "Sometimes, dear, when people have sex, the woman gets pregnant."

"I know how babies are made," Sherlock hissed. "How did you let this happen? You're a professional sex worker, I would think you could avoid an unintentional pregnancy. What were you thinking?"

"Calm down, you'll wake him up," Irene answered. His insult stung, but she kept her face emotionless. "Ten years ago a doctor told me I would never have children, and in all my years of "working" I've never had the slightest problem. You apparently have the magic touch."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He didn't believe her for a moment. "Fine," he said, "so I assume he's mine. Why are you telling me now?"

Irene pressed her lips together and swallowed. "I can't keep him," she whispered. Then she quickly pulled herself up, straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin. "I travel the world and interfere with dangerous men in dangerous plans. I misbehave. I can't keep him, he's yours now." She turned on her heel and walked out of the flat. She paused at the doorway and turned her head slightly to the side. "Goodbye, Mr. Holmes," she said, then hurried downstairs and out the door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Even were he not stark naked and holding an infant, he wouldn't give Irene the pleasure of him rushing after her. He looked at the sleeping child and smirked slightly. He still had no idea what the Woman was up to, but at least she had made the game interesting.


	2. Chapter 2

Nearly an hour later, now fully clothed, Sherlock marched into the lab at St. Bart's, Hamish in a baby carrier in one had and a bag of things Irene had left with him in the other.

"Molly!" Sherlock yelled, flashing a large (but false) grin at the short pathologist and forcing his voice to sound happy. "I'm so glad you're here!" He knew of course that she would be there. "I need your help with something."

Molly smiled nervously when she saw Sherlock. "Of course," she started, but stopped and let out a little squeak of surprise when Sherlock put the baby carrier on the table in front of her. "Sherlock, what are you doing with a baby? Where are his parents?" she asked.

"That's why I'm here, we need to do a paternity test," Sherlock answered.

"Oh-Oh, Ok," Molly stammered nervously, looking at the little baby. "Um, I have some buccal swabs in the cabinet."

"Excellent!" Sherlock still had his grin plastered to his face. "Let's get started."

"Right," Molly answered, moving to get her gloves and the swabs.

Sherlock looked down at the baby, who was now squirming around and blinking his eyes. The baby had wriggled and murmured some on the cab ride over, but had remained asleep. Sherlock was afraid he was now waking up for good. He did not want to be around an awake baby. He knew nothing about babies, but he had heard that they cried a lot. He grabbed the swabs from Molly as she walked back over.

"Hey!" Molly protested, but Sherlock interrupted her.

"One of us has to hold him and get him to open his mouth," he said. Molly shot him a glare, but gently picked up the baby.

"Come on little guy, open up," she cooed. The baby did open his mouth, and Sherlock quickly poked in the swabs, running them around the inside of the cheeks. The baby started to cry, he wasn't used to being accosted like that. Sherlock hurried to the far side of the lab to start processing the DNA, leaving Molly holding the baby.

Molly scowled at Sherlock, but she really couldn't expect anything different from him. There was no way Sherlock Holmes was going to hold and comfort a crying baby. "Sherlock, when was the last time he ate?" she asked. "Maybe he's hungry."

"I have had possession of that child for approximately one hour, during that time he has not eaten," Sherlock answered, but did not look up from his work. "I cannot tell you of his eating habits before then."

"Are you just going to leave me here with him, or are you going to help?" Molly asked. "I have work to do. I can't babysit all day."

"I am helping," Sherlock pouted. "I'm helping find his parents so we can return him as soon as possible." He hoped Molly would accept that excuse. He had no desire to be near the squirming, screaming child.

Molly huffed, but dug through the small bag of things until she found a bottle of baby formula. She heated it on a hotplate, bouncing the baby and rubbing his back to calm him while they waited on the bottle. When it was finally ready, he quickly latched onto it and started drinking.

"Do you know what his name is?" Molly asked.

"Hamish."

"Oh, that's John's middle name!"

"I didn't realize," Sherlock muttered, feigning ignorance. He pretended to be occupied although he had finished preparing the sample and was waiting on the DNA machine. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Hamish finished the bottle and Molly burped him. She also changed his diaper, and found some plastic toy in the bag to amuse the child with.

Sherlock tried to think of what possible motive Irene could have for giving him a baby and telling him it was his. The baby carrier, the bag, and all of its contents were obviously new, so he couldn't tell where they had been before she showed up at his flat. He picked up his phone and scrolled through the previous texts he and Irene had shared.

Looking through his phone, he realized it had been 15 months since he'd seen Irene in person. Yes, Paris had been the last time. Fifteen months was the longest they had gone without seeing each other, but they often spent months apart. Ever since he had rescued her in Karachi, they would meet a few days every several months. Their visits were very random and occasional though. She never came to England (the British Government still thought she was dead, after all, and they wouldn't want him to think otherwise), but if she had an interesting problem to solve wherever she was, and if Sherlock could get away from John and London, he would meet her. And yes, sometimes after the case was complete, they would have dinner. Neither of them seemed to mind they spent more time apart than together, but surely if she had found herself pregnant she would have mentioned it.

After Paris, he knew she had been heading to South America, and they had expected her mobile phone coverage to be spotty. Paris had been in February, and her next text to him was in August.

_I'm on a beach in the Gulf of Mexico, come join me. – IA_

_ NO! – SH_

_ You can't still be upset over that? – IA_

_ YES! – SH_

_ My date is dull. Join me for dinner. I have something I bet you've never tried. – IA_

_ The last time we were in Mexico, my body spent days trying to evacuate everything inside it through every orifice possible. NO! - SH_

_ Fine, this time we won't hide from cartel gunmen in a slum and you won't get sick. Come join me. – IA_

_ NO! – SH_

Irene would have been six months pregnant at that time, Sherlock reasoned, and he saw nothing to hint at it. Well. Was that the "dinner he had never tried?" He never understood half of her euphamisms. She had given up on trying to get him to go to Mexico, and her next text was in October.

_I'm far away from Mexico. Come join me. – IA_

_ I'm busy with a serial killer. Quite entertaining. Maybe next time. – SH_

He had been busy, Sherlock thought. The past year he had had several very interesting cases. At one point, he had actually gone 73 straight days without saying "Bored." John had been counting, and had posted the number on the wall of the flat, as some sort of celebratory mark. Sherlock scoffed at it.

Irene's next text was at the beginning of December.

_Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You are amazing. – IA_

He had no idea what she meant by it, and he had been so confused he never replied. He thought maybe she had been congratulating him on solving his latest case, although it would have been out of character for her to do so. If he hadn't been so busy with his next case, he might have tried harder to solve that mystery.

Hamish giggled as Molly tickled him, drawing Sherlock's attention. His eyes grew wide and he looked at the date of the text. He counted the months, and yes, December was nine months from their meeting in Paris in February. He gaped open mouthed at the baby. No, he thought, he was jumping to conclusions. He was interpreting her vague texts to fit the theory she had fed him of being a father; he wasn't being objective. He scrolled down to the next text, from January.

_I'm hungry. Let's have dinner. – IA_

_ No crime to seduce me with first? – SH_

_ I'll murder someone while you're on your way. Madrid. – IA_

_ Fine, but make sure you're creative about it. – SH_

_ Bomb at airport, flights are canceled. I have to go to work. – SH_

Yes, he had been headed to the airport when a bomb had been found on a plane and all the flights were cancelled. Lestrade had wondered how Sherlock had arrived at the crime scene so quickly. The case had been complex, lasting three weeks, and he had forgotten about his date in Madrid. After three weeks, she probably wasn't even in Madrid any longer. However, nothing in her message said, "Come meet your infant son."

There weren't any more texts. He hadn't heard from her again before she showed up at Baker Street. He didn't consider the texts concrete proof that she had had his child, but they also didn't provide any clues as to why she would give him a baby and leave.

The DNA machine beeped, signaling its completion. Sherlock pulled up copies of both his and Irene's DNA profiles for comparison. Might as well eliminate the obvious before sorting through the databases. He stared at the screen. The DNA was a perfect combination of him and the woman. It was their child.

"Oh, is it done already?" Molly asked cheerily, walking towards him.

"Um…no….um, its um,….not right," Sherlock stammered, quickly deleting the test results. "I mean, um….I think the sample from his mouth was contaminated. Maybe he ate something that skewed the results."

"What?" Molly asked, her brow furrowing. "I thought you said he hadn't eaten."

"Yes, well, I think we should re-do the test. With a new sample."

"Oh, ok," Molly agreed, but she looked unsure. "He's awfully small. We would probably be more successful getting blood from a heel prick, but I don't have that equipment here. I'd have to go to pediatrics."

"He's a baby, he's supposed to be small," Sherlock said, and pouted a little. He had always been small, until he finally got a growth spurt as a teenager.

"Well, just watch him," Molly said, laying Hamish back in his carrier. "I'll run to pediatrics. You make sure his heel is warm."

Sherlock enveloped the baby's right heel in his hand as Molly rushed out of the lab. Hamish tried to kick and started to whine.

"You be quiet," Sherlock answered him. His voice wasn't cold, but it wasn't the voice one would normally use to soothe a baby. "This isn't my fault you're involved, its hers. I'm only trying to figure out what she's up to and help you."

Hamish however did not listen and continued to cry. Sherlock looked around awkwardly for a few moments before deciding to pick up the child. He jostled the baby a bit before finally getting it settled in his arms. "Be quiet," he said again, but his voice was gentler. Hamish stopped crying to look at this man who was holding him.

Molly rushed in, sterile needle packs in her hands. "Awwwwww," she gushed when she saw Sherlock holding the baby. "That's adorable."

Sherlock blushed faintly and cleared his throat. "Yes, um...," he stammered. "We should get started. Here." He held out the baby to Molly, but she was pulling on her latex gloves.

"No, you hold him," she said. "You're doing great with him." She smiled. "Besides, do you know how to do a pediatric blood draw from a heel?"

Sherlock glared at her but settled the child in his arm again. With his other hand he unsnapped on leg of Hamish's pajamas and pulled out a tiny foot.

"Ok, hold him steady," Molly said. She frowned as she turned back and forth, trying to find a good angle to prick the baby's heel.

"Are you sure you know how to do this?" muttered Sherlock.

"Yes," Molly said firmly. "I did a pediatric rotation in med school." She took hold of Hamish's little foot, and continued much less confidently, "But I never liked this part." She stuck him with the needle and drew the blood.

For a moment, Sherlock thought that Hamish didn't mind the needle prick. But then the little face turned red and screwed up, and his mouth opened wide, and he let out a loud, ear-splitting scream. Sherlock looked like he was going to be sick, this was definitely far from his comfort zone.

"Oh, poor baby," Molly apologized to Hamish. She placed a bandage over the needle prick, and tried to rub Hamish's belly to soothe him. Sherlock took his chance and shoved the baby at her, but she evaded him. "No, I should run this test, to make sure there's no mistakes," she said. "Besides, I have a lot of other work to do."

Sherlock frowned. "I didn't make a mistake," he growled. "It was a contamination."

Molly set up the test, and to Sherlock's relief she went to complete her other tasks rather than watching the test run. Sherlock wandered over to watch machine. He rubbed Hamish's back in the same way Molly had, and started pacing around the lab. Soon Hamish settled down, and looked around at all the equipment on the lab tables.

Sherlock looked at Hamish. So Hamish was small, and Sherlock had been a small child. The baby had blue-grey eyes, but didn't all babies have blue eyes? The fine hair on his head was dark, and was starting to curl. Sherlock knew he had been born with blonde hair, which had later turned dark. So that was different. Sherlock sighed. Maybe the dark hair came from Irene. He had to admit, if one were to go into his mother's office and look at the picture she kept of him as an infant, this child looked exactly like the one in that picture.

Well, of course it had a resemblance to him. Irene wouldn't choose any baby for her plan (whatever it was), she would choose one that could reasonably pass for his son.

Hamish was reaching for the things on the tables. He wants to know what things are, Sherlock thought. Was this normal for a six-month-old? He had no idea how advanced a baby should be.

"These are beakers," he explained, pointing to the glass containers. "And this is a test tube."

Hamish grabbed the test tube from Sherlock's hand and put it in his mouth.

"Hmm, that's probably not a good idea," Sherlock said, taking the test tube back. "Its made of glass. Here, take this. It's a pipete, and plastic. Good for chewing." Molly gave Sherlock a sideways look as he put the drool-covered test tube back on the table, but said nothing. Sherlock continued around the lab, pointing things out to Hamish, who looked at everything while chewing on his pipete. He likes to observe and learn and he's very intelligent, thought Sherlock.

The test finished, and luckily Molly was busy with some liver samples. Sherlock pulled up the profiles again. They were the same as before. Hamish was his son. For a moment Sherlock stared open mouthed at the screen, then snapped back to himself.

He quickly pressed "print" and settled Hamish back into the baby carrier.

"Oh, did the test finish?" asked Molly. She was smiling and perky. "Do you know how to find his parents now?"

"Yes," Sherlock snapped, and grabbed the results from the printer. He stuffed the papers in his coat and grabbed the diaper bag and the baby carrier.

"Great," Molly said, walking over. "Who is it?"

"I have to go, Molly, you've been very helpful." Sherlock spoke quickly and didn't look at her.

"But who…oh?" Molly started. Her eyes widened in realization as she stared at him as he rushed out of the lab. "Oh. Oh!"

Sherlock pushed out the doors and was gone with a flourish of his coat.

* * *

A/N: This is my first story. What do you think? Should I continue? Thanks.


	3. Chapter 3

_No, no, no, no, no, no, no!_ Sherlock thought as he burst out the door of St. Bart's. He ran a hand through his dark curly hair and stared down at the baby carrier in his left hand. _No, this is impossible, no, no!_ Sherlock started pacing back and forth, and he could feel his heart racing. _No, no – STOP!_ He was not going to have a panic attack on the sidewalk in front of the hospital. _Breathe_, he told himself, _breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out_.

He regained control of himself and looked down at the baby again. Hamish kicked his legs and gurgled. Sherlock growled. What was he supposed to do with a baby? John! John would know what to do. He reached in his pocket for his phone.

_Come home now! – SH_

_I am at work and will come home when my shift ends. – JW_

Damn John and that bloody boring job he insisted on keeping! Sherlock had no idea what time John's shift ended. It could be hours away.

_This is an emergency! – SH_

_Are you bleeding? – JW_

_No. – SH_

_Its very complicated, but it is an emergency. – SH_

_Sherlock, I warned you about texting me at work. – JW_

_I am turning off my phone. – JW_

_No! – SH_

_John, I need you home now! – SH_

_John! – SH_

There were no more replies. John really had turned off his phone. Sherlock let out a scream of frustration. Hamish answered with a little scream of his own.

Sherlock stepped to the curb and hailed a cab. If John wouldn't come home, he would take the baby to John. Despite the lack of blood, this was most certainly an emergency.

Sherlock stared out the window as the cab made its way to the surgery, not looking at the baby on the seat next to him. It was impossible that this child was his. Well, no, his logical mind told him, not impossible. He and the Woman had engaged in activities that could lead to the conception and birth of a child. So it was merely improbable that the child was his. What was impossible were mistakes in the two DNA tests he had just completed.

He and John could take it to one of those places where they accepted unwanted children, no questions asked, and placed them in a happy foster home. He vaguely acknowledged the fact that St. Bart's was probably one such place that accepted children, and he could have resolved this issue by himself, but he wanted John.

Hamish started to fuss and cry, and Sherlock tried to gently rub the baby's stomach to calm him, as Molly had done in the lab. Hamish grabbed Sherlock's fingers and promptly brought them to his mouth, covering them in baby drool. Sherlock was impressed by the strength of the tiny grip. He let his hand go limp so the baby could play with it. He really didn't care if his hand got messy, as long as Hamish didn't cry.

Foster homes weren't happy, Sherlock knew. He supposed some must be, but he only saw the ones where crimes had been committed. Several of the young homeless people in his network had run away from foster care. And Lestrade was never happy when a case resulted in children losing their parents and going into the foster care system.

"I can assure you, you will not be any better off with me," Sherlock murmured to the child.

Hamish was now intently examining Sherlock's drool covered fingers. Despite not knowing the developmental stages of children, and whether or not this child was normal, Sherlock couldn't help but be impressed with the baby's tendency to study objects around him. He liked to learn things. As he got older, he would probably enjoy spending lots of time observing the world around him, and learning more about it. He wouldn't be happy with just a nice, regular foster family. He would need a family who understood his curiosity, and encouraged his efforts to learn, no matter how destructive the experiments could be.

Sherlock thought back to his own childhood. His family was equipped to raise a genius, but they still struggled with the exuberance that was Sherlock. He had longed for them to simply understand him, or even that he could understand them. He wanted parents who were sympathetic, patient, forgiving, and yet adventurous enough to not stifle him. Suddenly Sherlock knew the perfect parent for Hamish. He looked away from the baby and out the cab window again, and realized they were almost at the surgery.

"Excuse me," Sherlock said to the cabbie. "I've changed my mind, I'd like to go 221B Baker Street."

"Whatever you want, gov," the cabbie answered, and turned down a side street.

"And if you pass a Tescos, please stop for a moment," Sherlock continued. "I need to get some milk."


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock placed Hamish, still in his baby carrier, on the kitchen table.

"John only turns his phone off when he's extremely agitated," Sherlock muttered aloud, looking around the flat. He frowned. "Yet he is more easily convinced to help when he is in a good mood. So he is upset and we need to please him."

Hamish yawned. His little arms and legs hung limply, and he blinked his blue eyes sleepily.

"Excellent idea," Sherlock announced, looking down at him. "You go to sleep, and wait until I explain everything to him before I introduce you." Sherlock carried him into his bedroom. "You're almost as inspiring as the skull," he told the baby before leaving the room, a bit of admiration in his voice.

John complained about the state of the flat quite often, especially the kitchen. Sherlock knew John thought he deleted all of the complaints, but Sherlock really just ignored them. He saw no point in cleaning the flat, it would only get messed up again, and besides, he knew where everything was. The only reason he didn't delete John's constant pestering was for situations like this, when he would need to convince John of something big.

Sherlock sighed. He had no desire to clean anything, but it was the only plan he could come up with. Mrs. Hudson was at her sister's for the week, so he couldn't convince her to do it for him. He was actually rather glad she was away; he didn't want her in the way as he tried to explain Hamish to John.

Sherlock moved all of the body parts in the fridge to the bottom shelf, leaving nothing but food on the top. Luckily he didn't have anything larger than a pair of kidneys at the moment. He then washed all of the dishes in the sink, a task he was actually quite good at, despite never letting John know. He was a scientist, he knew how important it was to have perfectly clean equipment to avoid contaminating an experiment. The beakers and bottles scattered about the counter were therefore already clean, and he gathered them onto the shelves John had once labeled "Experiments" in an attempt to organize the flat. However he did have some chemicals mixed in an on-going experiment that couldn't be disturbed, so those had to remain on the table.

Sherlock was quite proud of the job he had done in the kitchen. He walked into the lounge, and wished John would hurry up and return home so he could quit cleaning. He gathered up the books scattered about and placed them back on the shelf, and started just throwing the loose sheets of paper laying all about into a large box. After what seemed like an eternity he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He darted into the kitchen to start the kettle for tea.

"Finally, John, you're home," Sherlock announced as John walked in the door and took off his coat. He gave John one of his biggest grins.

"Finally?" John repeated. "I left work two hours early because I was worried about you and your 'emergency'!"

"Coming home to change your clothes because your patient vomited on you had no impact on your early return?" Sherlock asked, looking at John's soiled shoes and pant legs with disgust. John had attempted to clean most of it off, but was not entirely successful. Some of the sick was disguised by the mud that had splashed onto the doctor during his walk home, but that didn't make John feel better. You didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to see that John's day had been going badly.

"Actually, no," John answered ruefully. "The vomit was there even before you started texting me."

"Its not important," Sherlock said. "I'm making you tea. I even got the milk." Sherlock turned and started towards the kitchen.

"Right," John sighed, and followed. If Sherlock was buying milk and making tea, then he had done something very wrong. They hadn't had a case in four days, and the detective was getting dangerously bored. He tried to brace himself for whatever this "emergency" was.

"Oh, my God, Sherlock, what have you done!" John yelled when he saw the kitchen.

"I just straightened up a bit," Sherlock answered innocently.

"No, you don't 'just straighten up', you're trying to butter me up for something," John said firmly. He looked into the lounge, but his laptop and armchair still seemed to be in one piece. "Christ, Sherlock, you were even cleaning up in here."

"Yes," Sherlock pouted. John did not seemed pleased at all by his efforts. Good. He would never have to waste time cleaning the flat again. However, he still had the problem of how to get John into a more receptive attitude. "Come and have some tea."

"You were up in my room, weren't you?" John shouted. He clenched his left fist and glared at Sherlock. "Did you set my bed on fire? Test the effects of different acids on all my clothes? Simply blow up the entire room?"

"John, do stop being ridiculous," Sherlock snapped, although he made a note to test different chemicals on different types of clothing later. That could be an interesting experiment.

John opened his mouth to demand that Sherlock tell him what he had done, but he was interrupted by a cry from Sherlock's bedroom.

"What was that?" he asked, pointing to the bedroom door.

Sherlock sighed. "I told him to be quiet until I had explained everything."

John set his jaw and marched toward the bedroom. Sherlock tried to step in front of him, but was pushed back by the soldier's forearm. John threw open the door, but was stopped short by the sight of a crying, kicking baby in the middle of Sherlock's bed. Sherlock pushed past John and went to pick up Hamish.

"There's a baby in our flat?" John exclaimed.

"Yes, John, thank you for once again stating the obvious," Sherlock muttered.

"Do we have a case? Is that why you have a baby?"

"No. I wouldn't call it a case. Do try to keep your voice down though, I believe you're upsetting him."

"Fine," John said. He was still glaring at Sherlock, but he did lower his voice. "Fine. You said you had an explanation?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, and took a deep breath. "His mother left him here this morning. She said she could not care for him any longer. I do not know why she cannot care for him, and although I do have four possible theories, I have not had the opportunity to investigate any of them as of yet. At any rate-"

"What kind of woman leaves her child with you? Does she not know who you are?"

Sherlock glared at John. He hated to be interrupted, and John knew it. John returned the glare. He found it a little too difficult to believe someone would consider Sherlock Holmes a suitable babysitter, and wasn't accepting this "explanation." John won the scowling contest. Sherlock sighed and looked down at Hamish. The baby in his arms was no longer screaming and kicking, but he was still whimpering.

"She knows who I am," Sherlock whispered. "I'm his father."

John snorted.

"I am capable of fathering a child!" Sherlock snapped.

John folded his arms. He'd had a long day, and Sherlock's ridiculous story was giving him a headache. "All right, then, if he's yours, who is his mother?" he asked, setting his jaw firmly to avoid shouting again and making the baby cry.

Sherlock squirmed. He hadn't planned on telling John about the Woman, and was hoping to omit the identity of the child's mother. He wasn't sure if it would be a good idea to admit they had faked her death.

"Who is his mother?" John asked again, his voice rising.

"Ms. Adler."

"Excuse me?" John's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "I thought she-" but he cut himself off.

"Thought she went into the witness protection program in America?" Sherlock finished for him, giving him a pointed look.

"Right," John sighed, admitting to the lie. "Apparently she didn't die in Karachi either. I'm assuming you helped with that?"

"Obviously, who else would have been able to do such a thing?" Sherlock smugly answered. He had wanted to take credit for that for years.

John ran his hand through his short blonde hair. If there were ever a woman that Sherlock would be with, it would be Irene Adler. But John wasn't convinced. "Look, Sherlock, whatever relationship you have developed with her, she's not exactly trustworthy. What makes you so sure this child is yours?"

"I did the paternity test myself this morning," Sherlock answered. "Molly confirmed the results. His DNA is a perfect combination of mine and Ms. Adler's."

"In that case I think you can start calling her Irene." John chuckled, and Sherlock returned the smile.

"I was going to put him in foster care," Sherlock continued in his deep baritone. "I know I'll be a horrible father. I could never care for him properly on my own. But I couldn't bear the thought of him growing up with people who would teach him inane nursery rhymes and punish him for trying to dissect a dead bird and wonder why he would want a microscope rather than a video game for his birthday. I had a difficult childhood, John. Even before the hospitals and the drugs and the depression and the bullies and the boarding schools, I was alone and confused. Its too early to tell if he has….if he's like me,…but if he is…"

"If he is," John broke in, stepping over to Sherlock, "then he'll have a father, and an uncle, who will care for him very much."

Sherlock let out a deep breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and smiled gratefully at John. John grinned and reached out to gently touch the back of the baby's head. Hamish looked up at him and smiled.

"Look he's smiling at me," John exclaimed. "He likes me!"

"And he's making eye contact," Sherlock noted. "That's a good sign."


	5. Chapter 5

John smiled back at the baby in Sherlock's arms, and suddenly felt a bit awkward. What does one say after you've agreed to help raise your flatmate's child?

"So, um, what's his name?"

"Hamish."

"You're kidding," John chuckled, but he had to admit he was flattered.

Sherlock simply shrugged. "Irene named him."

"Why didn't you mention him before?" John asked, reaching out a hand to gently tickle Hamish's cheek. The baby quickly gripped one of John's fingers in a tiny fist.

"I was unaware of his existence until this today," Sherlock answered in a neutral tone, as if that were the normal way to learn one had a child.

"Wow," John gaped at Sherlock and Hamish. "Just, wow." He decided Hamish would definitely need him if he were to have any chance at growing up normally.

"So," John said, looking around and still a bit unsure of what to say. "Do we have diapers and bottles and things?"

Sherlock nodded his head towards the bag Irene had left with Hamish. "We have some. Molly gave him a bottle and a clean diaper at the lab."

John looked through the bag. There was only the one can of baby formula, and half a dozen diapers. "He's going to need another bottle soon, he has to eat several times a day. And he'll probably need a clean diaper soon as well."

Sherlock stared at Hamish with a look of shock. "Several times a day?"

"Yes, babies need nutrition to develop their brains," John answered. Surely that would convince Sherlock of the need to feed him regularly. But John really wasn't as assured and knowledgeable as he sounded. He had never spent any time around small children, and that statement was the extent of his knowledge on the subject. He had learned it by flipping through a magazine one day while eating lunch in the doctor's lounge at the surgery.

"Get your coat, we're going to the shop," John commanded.

"What!" Sherlock protested, "Why do I have to go?"

"Because we are going to go through a lot of diapers and baby formula before he is potty trained and eating solid food, and if you never learn to buy anything else except milk, you are going to learn to purchase diapers and formula. He's not crying for a bottle yet, so we might as well take the opportunity to restock now." John folded his arms and gave Sherlock his commanding officer stare. Sherlock pouted, but didn't argue.

They walked down the sidewalk, Sherlock carrying Hamish. He looked down at the baby and then over at John. "You know what people are going to say about us now?"

John snorted. "They will say the same things they have been saying for years."

"It doesn't bother you anymore?" Sherlock asked.

"Only if it interferes in my trying to get a date," John answered. "Otherwise, I'm giving up. People will believe whatever they want, regardless of the truth. Besides, you having a baby should be proof that you fancy women."

"A woman," Sherlock corrected. John thought about asking more questions, but decided he would wait until another time.

John had never been in the baby aisle of a shop, and he had to admit he was a bit intimidated. There were three shelves of baby formula, all with claims of being healthy and tasty and easy to digest.

"Which brand was in the bag at home?" John asked Sherlock.

"You looked at the can, don't you know?" snapped Sherlock. He was scowling, looking around at shelves packed with a variety of options. The fluorescent lights above were buzzing, and a baby at the opposite end of the aisle started to cry.

"Yes, but you're the one with the brilliant powers of observation," John replied irritably. He looked over at Sherlock. The taller man was starting to breathe heavily, and was staring at the floor.

"Ok, ok," John said, in a softer voice. "I'll choose one. How old is he?"

"Approximately five to six months," mumbled Sherlock.

"Good." John focused his attention on the cans labeled for children with an age of six months. Was this how shopping always felt to Sherlock? He was so overwhelmed by the task that he would get confused and intimidated and have to leave?

Even having narrowed down his options, John was still unsure which can to purchase. A woman with brown hair pulled back into a messy ponytail and a crying baby in her arm stepped in front of him, and placed two cans in her cart.

"Excuse me, I'm sorry," she smiled weakly at him, and he noticed how tired she looked.

"No problem," John smiled after her, as she hurried on with her shopping and tried to calm her baby. He shrugged and grabbed the same brand she had.

"Here," he said, showing the can to Sherlock. "Take a good look and don't delete it." Sherlock scowled, but looked over the can.

The diaper section had just as many options as the formula section. After staring at the shelves for a few moments, John surreptitiously opened a package and held a diaper up to Hamish's backside, trying to determine if it was the correct size. This reduced both John and Sherlock to giggles, and they continued joking and laughing back to the flat.

John had taken a seat in his armchair, and Sherlock held out Hamish towards him. "Here," he said. "You should hold him."

"Right," John replied. He was nervous, but he would have to hold the baby eventually. He was surprised at how solid the small child felt in his hands. "Hi, there," John cooed, and Hamish giggled.

"I thought I gave you the talk about safe sex when you were thirteen," a sour voice said. Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway to the flat, glaring at the three inhabitants with a look of exasperation and disgust.

"Bloody hell, Mycroft, who invited you?" growled Sherlock.

"Did you think I wouldn't find out?" the elder Holmes answered. John stared up at the two brothers, and Hamish gave a loud cry.

"Just because he has your whine, dear brother, does not mean he is your son," Mycroft sneered.

Sherlock took the paternity test results from his coat pocket and shoved them at Mycroft. "Its time for his bottle," he muttered, and stormed off to the kitchen while Mycroft examined the papers and scowled.

"I think its time for something else too," John stated, after catching a whiff from Hamish's diaper. He settled the baby on the floor, and looked to see if there were directions on the diaper package. Seeing none, he sighed and attempted to get Hamish's pants and soiled diaper off. Apparently he was doing it wrong, because Hamish was squirming and crying.

"For God's sake, John, its like you've never changed a baby before," Mycroft exclaimed, rolling his eyes. With an exasperated huff he pushed John aside. John stared in open-mouthed shock as the man put down his umbrella and kneeled on the floor in his three-piece suit. In a few moments he had expertly changed the diaper and Hamish had stopped crying.

"Where did you learn that?" John asked, in complete awe.

"Who do you think changed his," Mycroft answered, nodding his head towards the kitchen and Sherlock. "His birth was rather difficult for our mother, and she had to spend several weeks in the hospital recovering from the complications. There were nannies, of course, but he never bonded with any of them."

Mycroft gathered up the soiled diaper and went to the kitchen to toss it and wash his hands. John picked up Hamish and watched the two brothers through the doorway. He could tell they were having an argument, but they kept their voices too low for him to make out any words. Sherlock stamped his feet and gesticulated wildly with his arms. Mycroft stood solidly and sneered at his younger brother.

"Your family may be brilliant," John whispered to Hamish, "But they are all bloody mad as well."

Mycroft walked back into the lounge and looked down at John, still sitting in the floor with Hamish. "Good luck, John," he said, his voice clipped. "Raising a Holmes is never easy. Let me know if you ever need any assistance."

Mycroft bent to pick up his umbrella, and he placed an object on the coffee table as he stood up. He turned and walked out of the flat.

John looked at the thing on the coffee table. It was a stuffed monkey, bright blue with an embroidered smile and long legs and tail. He smiled and handed it to Hamish, who squealed with glee and started chewing on one of the legs.

Sherlock returned with Hamish's bottle. "What is that?" he yelled, looking at the monkey with disgust.

"It's a toy, Sherlock, _obviously_," John answered. "Would you rather he played with the skull?"

Sherlock only huffed. He handed John the bottle and threw himself on the sofa.

"We're going to need to get more toys for him," John said, offering Hamish the bottle, who eagerly began sucking on it. "We need more baby clothes, too. And a crib, a high chair, a stroller…and things I probably can't even think of."

"Mmmm," was Sherlock's only response.


	6. Chapter 6

There was a light drizzle falling that afternoon, but John chose to walk home from work anyway. He wanted time to think. It was one thing to agree to help raise a baby when said baby is in front of you, all cute and smiling. It was quite another when you've had a day to think of exactly what raising a child entailed. John remembered the poor mother in the shop, with the crying baby, and how tired she looked. He wondered how he would feel about Hamish when he was screaming and crying.

The last time John had seriously thought about being a father, he was seventeen and his condom broke. The concept of fatherhood had been terrifying on so many levels then, and he'd been incredibly relieved when he found out his girlfriend wasn't pregnant. He had always thought that children would be a thing he and his future wife would discuss one day, but none of his relationships ever lasted long enough to get to that point. At the very least, he expected to have nine months to prepare himself.

He had looked for the parenting magazine in the doctor's lounge, but it was gone. He made up a story about babysitting his sister's kid and asked advice from Dr. Wright, who handled most of the pediatric cases that came into the surgery. He learned that as a six month old, Hamish was ready to start solid foods and was due for some vaccinations. In a month or two he would start crawling. Hamish already put everything he could grab into his mouth, John was afraid what would happen once the baby was mobile and could grab even more things. Even if they managed to get all of the weapons and chemicals and body parts out of the flat, it was nowhere near safe enough for a baby.

John wasn't sure how a baby was supposed to fit into 221B at all. The flat was where Sherlock did his Work, and the weapons and chemicals and body parts were essential to the Work, that was why John endured them. Sherlock couldn't function without the Work. But how would he enter his Mind Palace when Hamish was teething and crying all night? How could they run off to investigate a lead in the middle of the night, who would watch Hamish? And, God forbid, what would happen if a criminal realized the consulting detective had a baby?

There was also the issue of what happened around the flat when there were no cases. Sherlock acted like a child himself, sulking for days or throwing tantrums or making mischief to relieve the boredom. John had a hard enough time trying to take care of Sherlock during those times, he wasn't sure he could handle an actual child as well. Before he left for work that morning, John had been nervous about leaving Hamish at home with Sherlock all day, but honestly, he had been more nervous about spending the day with the baby himself.

John realized he had made it to Baker Street. He thought briefly about walking around the block a few times, but decided against it. He doubted he would have an epiphany any time soon, so he may as well go upstairs and face his problem. He was a bit cold from the rain, and really just wanted a hot cup of tea. He sighed and unlocked his front door.

As he stepped inside, John picked up the mail and flipped through it. Under all the bills and junk there was a large manila envelope. It didn't have any name or address on it, it hadn't come through the post; someone must have placed it there. Curious, John looked inside and pulled out a stack of documents.

The first document was a birth certificate for Hamish Raffles Holmes. John couldn't help but chuckle. He would have to think of a nickname for the poor boy. The next document infuriated him though. It was a Parental Responsibility form, and it gave him responsibility for Hamish. The signatures were flawless; John had to admit even the "John H. Watson, MD" looked like his own. He was definitely going to punch that insufferable git Mycroft the next time he saw him. Mycroft had to be behind this, who else could produce such documents? John wasn't sure he would even qualify for PR without Mycroft's interference.

Of course if Mycroft had asked him to sign the form, he would have. He couldn't just abandon the baby, but forging his name was just rude. He noticed that there was no PR form for Mycroft, although he was sure Mycroft could simply produce one whenever he wanted. John also noticed that Sherlock and Irene both had PR as well. It would have been very easy to eliminate Sherlock from all responsibility, but Mycroft was apparently giving his brother a chance. So the British Government, and Hamish's biological uncle, felt they would be suitable parents. John didn't have the same confidence.

The final documents from the envelope surprised John yet again. They established a trust fund for Hamish, managed by Mycroft. John had suspected that Sherlock had a trust fund, and he supposed this was his proof. Hamish's fund was created with deposits drawn from the accounts of Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Violet Holmes, and the Holmes Estate (managed by Sherrinford Holmes). Each deposit was several times the amount that John had in his own savings account. John sighed again, feeling even more inadequate. At least he would never have to worry about how to pay for Hamish's education.

"John!" Sherlock's sharp voice interrupted John's thoughts. John looked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway to their flat. "Is it not enough that I waited for you all day to bring me that formaldehyde? Now you make me wait longer by standing in the hall?" Sherlock rushed down the stairs towards John.

John just gaped at his flatmate. The man was still wearing his chemistry goggles, but the truly odd feature was that Sherlock had strapped a welding helmet to his chest.

"Um, Sherlock, what are you doing with the welding helmet?" John couldn't think of any reasonable explanation for it.

"I couldn't find goggles in his size," Sherlock snapped in an irritated huff. "Besides, I thought it would be safer if his whole body was covered."

John stared closer at Sherlock, and realized there were two tiny feet extending from below the helmet. Sherlock was apparently wearing Hamish on his chest in some sort of baby holder, and had then strapped on the welding helmet to cover the baby.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "You're doing experiments with him?"

"Well, not _with_ him, he's far too young to understand chemistry," Sherlock said. He peeked down his front, under the helmet. "Also, he's been asleep for the last 17 minutes."

"Then what are you doing?" John asked, rubbing his forehead. He already found parenthood exhausting.

"He wants to be held, I want to do my experiments." Sherlock answered, irritated at having to explain. "This was the obvious solution."

Sherlock reached out and grabbed the bottle of formaldehyde that John had picked up from the surgery. He turned and hurried upstairs, muttering about having his experiment interrupted by John's tardiness. John couldn't help but laugh as he followed Sherlock up the stairs. If the most selfish man in the world could figure out how to integrate a baby into his life, John supposed he should try as well.

Stepping into the flat, John was shocked to see it covered in shopping bags and boxes. He peeked into a few bags. They were filled with baby clothes, toys, sippy cups, even a couple books on parenting. Still smiling, John wandered into the kitchen to put on the kettle.

"Did you do all this shopping?" he asked.

"Mmmm," Sherlock answered from behind an assortment of beakers on the table. He was adding something brown to something green with an eyedropper. "The crib should be delivered within the hour. It will require some assembly."

"Right," John chuckled, and reached for a large box containing a high chair. He wasn't going to argue. Since Sherlock managed to purchase everything, it was only fair that he put it all together.

Half an hour later, John had the deliverymen deposit crates containing a crib and a dresser in Sherlock's room. Hamish awoke from his nap and started fussing. Strengthened by a hot cup of tea and his successful assembly of the high chair, John volunteered to take the baby while Sherlock finished working on his experiment. As he carried the baby into the lounge to test out the new toys, his phone buzzed.

_I had a rough day. Fancy meeting me at the pub for a pint? – GL_

Hamish reached for John's phone. "Just like your Da, aren't you?" John chuckled. "Always wanting someone else's phone." John successfully distracted Hamish from the phone with a large plastic bumblebee. He smiled down at the happy baby. He didn't know how Hamish did it, but somehow all of John's fears didn't seem so bad when the baby was giggling.

_I have a something here that will do a much better job of cheering you up. Come to the flat. – JW_

_Oh God, what has he done now? – GL_

_You won't believe me if I tell you. – JW_

_Ok, on my way. – GL _

When he heard Lestrade open the front door, John scooped Hamish up and went to meet him at the door to the flat. Sherlock finished in the kitchen, and flopped down in his armchair, steepling his fingers under his chin and staring at the wall. Lestrade trudged up the stairs to the flat and stared open mouthed at John and the baby.

"Say hello to your Uncle Greg," John prompted Hamish. Hamish gave Lestrade a sideways stare and babbled.

Lestrade burst out laughing, and had to lean against the doorframe to support himself. "John, you really did it this time," he wheezed. "Which one of your girlfriends showed up with him?"

"Come on now, Detective Inspector," John answered, grinning. "Look at those dark curls, the blue eyes, the pouty lip. Who would you deduce his father to be?"

Lestrade stopped laughing and looked over at Sherlock, still in his armchair. Sherlock scowled, but said nothing. Lestrade looked between Hamish and Sherlock a few more times. John's eyes were twinkling, and he couldn't help but giggle.

"No," Lestrade whispered.

"Yup," John replied.

Sherlock's scowl deepened, and he looked away from Lestrade, preferring to stare at the wall. He was annoyed at having to explain Hamish to people. He had prepared himself for John, but Mycroft and now Lestrade just burst in on him. Lestrade however, walked right up to Sherlock and clapped him on the shoulder. He reached into his coat and brought out a cigar. "Congratulations, mate!" he exclaimed, handing the cigar to the younger man. "You're a father!"

Sherlock stopped scowling and stared at his cigar with confusion, and then smiled slightly. Lestrade was grinning from ear to ear.

"Sorry, John, I only had the one on me. I didn't know we were celebrating!" Lestrade continued, and held out his arms to take Hamish. "Let me see the young man. Oh, he's a fine lad!" Lestrade swung Hamish up in the air, and Hamish responded with giggles and squeals.

"You are not smoking that in the flat," John stated firmly, pointing to Sherlock and the cigar.

Sherlock pouted. "It's a stupid tradition to give cigars to celebrate a baby, when I can't smoke said cigar around the baby." He held on to the cigar though. He would find a place to enjoy it later.

Lestrade looked around at all of the new baby supplies laying about the flat and raised his eyebrows. "It looks like the little guy will be staying here, huh?" he asked.

"Yeah, that's the plan," John sighed, feeling all of his insecurities start to creep back. "Come on back, you can help me assemble the crib."

The three men headed to Sherlock's bedroom, and took turns playing with the baby and assembling furniture. Lestrade loved children, and had three daughters of his own. But they lived with their mother since the divorce, and he didn't get to see them nearly as often as he wanted. Lestrade was full of advice on how to feed and diaper and care for a baby, which John was more than happy to listen to.

"Does he sleep through the night yet?" Lestrade asked as he and John got the mattress settled in the completed crib.

"Are you kidding?" John snorted. "Sherlock doesn't sleep through the night yet. That's why the crib is in here, someone should use this room to sleep in."

Sherlock responded to their laughter with an eye-roll.

"Don't worry about it," Lestrade chuckled. "Look, no one really knows what they're doing with their first baby. You make it up as you go along. You've had him for two days, and so far he's still happy and healthy, so you're doing great."

"Right," John said, feeling a bit better. He picked up Hamish, and decided he should try diaper changing again. "Thanks, Greg."

"Anytime," Lestrade smiled. "Sherlock, walk me out." He kissed Hamish's curls and headed to the door.

"Did you forget the way to the door?" Sherlock asked, as he walked out into the hall with Lestrade.

Lestrade turned suddenly and dropped his smile. "Alright, Sherlock," he said, keeping his voice low but very serious. "I know I could do half a dozen drug busts on this place and not find anything. But he's going to be crawling soon, and he's going to get inside cabinets and up shelves and into everything. I'm sure you don't want anything in here for him to find."

Sherlock stared at the floor and only nodded.

"I'm happy for you, very, very happy." Lestrade continued. "And I know you can do this. Ok?"

Lestrade sighed and walked out of the flat. Sherlock curled up in his armchair, pulling his knees up to his chin and wrapping his arms around his legs.

* * *

A/N: I couldn't quite get the end of this chapter to sound right. Also, I'm American (obviously), and learned everything about Parental Responsibility from Google. Sorry if I got it wrong.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock sat curled in his armchair, staring at the wall. Did Lestrade really know what he had hidden in the flat? Doubtful. He had been clean for ages, there was no reason for Lestrade to think he still had drugs. But Lestrade really wasn't an idiot, and he had plenty of experience arresting junkies.

It had been there for years. But it was pure, not cut with anything, chemically inert, and would last forever. He had almost told John about it when they cleaned the flat, but he found he just couldn't tell him. He had given up all his other hiding places, but had held back on only this one. He had reasoned with himself that it would be for an emergency only.

He had wanted it, of course, at first. But John stayed with him through the danger nights, and he hadn't been able to get it. Lestrade kept providing him cases for his mind to work on. Occasionally, between cases, he had considered doing it just to ease the boredom, but he was afraid that a really good case would suddenly appear and he'd have to decline it. While he still thought about it every day, he never touched it.

John came into the lounge, after putting Hamish to bed in the new crib. He said something friendly and turned on the television. Sherlock ignored him completely.

It was in a good hiding place, very secure. Lestrade and his team never even got close to finding it. John and Mrs. Hudson never found it either, nor did Mycroft or his goons when they searched the flat. The chances of a baby discovering it were infinitesimally small.

Maybe Hamish wouldn't find it crawling around. A baby probably wouldn't be able to pry off the baseboard anyway. Maybe by the time Hamish was a toddler he'd be able to get to it. Or maybe he wouldn't find it until he was an older child, looking for a hiding place for his own childhood treasures. Or maybe he wouldn't find it until he was a sullen teenager.

Infinitesimally small suddenly seemed dangerously large.

Sherlock knew he should dispose of it. Should just get up and go and get rid of it. But he couldn't get out of his chair. He couldn't move. He blinked and noticed John sitting in the room with him. John could do it. All Sherlock had to do was tell him where it was.

"John." Sherlock's voice was a whisper, barely louder than the exhalation of a breath. John shouldn't be able to hear it, especially not over the telly. Yet he did hear it.

_NO!_ Something inside of Sherlock's head screamed. He had shut that voice in a room in his mind palace, but he knew he'd never locked the door. _No, no, no, no! Shut up!_

"Yeah, Sherlock," John answered, looking up. He was smiling pleasantly.

"John, take all of the books off of the bottom of the middle bookshelf." Sherlock's voice was still a whisper, his face void of expression. But the voice inside still screamed at him to _stop, to shut up, shut up, shut up_.

John gave Sherlock a curious glance, but got up and went to the middle bookshelf. As he removed all of the books, he started to form an idea of what he was doing. His face became stern, but he didn't say a word, just looked at Sherlock, waiting.

"Pull off the baseboard."

And there it was. It wasn't an especially large amount, but it was there. John gathered it all up, the vials and the syringes, and took them to the bathroom. He flushed twice, to make sure it was all gone. It was done. Sherlock sighed and relaxed.

"Where else?" John's voice was hard as he stared at Sherlock.

Sherlock shook his head. "That's all," he answered. The voice inside was wailing, berating him for wasting it. He realized it was a lot easier to ignore the voice than it used to be.

"Where else?" John gritted his teeth.

"That's all," Sherlock repeated. He was calm and relaxed now, because it was all gone, finally. Why did John not see this?

"This is your last chance," John yelled. "If I ever, ever find any more of that crap anywhere near you, I am leaving." He felt his face flush with anger, and a vein in his neck throbbed. He clenched his fists as he glared at his flatmate.

In the bedroom, Hamish started to cry.

"And I will take him with me," John screamed, pointing at the bedroom.

"You won't find any more, John," Sherlock whispered, feeling a bit cowed by John's anger. "That was the last of it."

John grabbed his coat and stormed out of the flat, slamming the door as he left. He made it to the end of the block before he admitted he was being an arse.

_Good job, Watson_, he thought. _You've been responsible for a child for 24 hours and you've already walked out on him._

He rubbed his face and looked back at the flat. He considered going back, but thought he would probably just punch Sherlock if he did, so he continued walking. He had had an incredibly stressful day, worrying about Hamish. Learning his best friend was keeping drugs in their flat only added to his exhaustion.

John felt betrayed. The last time Sherlock had relapsed, John had simply said that he couldn't live with a crackhead. Sherlock had chosen their friendship over the drugs, or so John had thought. He had stayed with Sherlock through the withdrawals, and the danger nights, and even the days when the detective was just bored. He never expected Sherlock to thank him, having his best friend clean was all John wanted. But apparently Sherlock had been lying about being clean. There could only be one reason why there were drugs in the flat.

John pulled his coat tighter against the cold night. Maybe Sherlock hadn't been doing drugs. He really wanted to believe it. John wasn't nearly as obtuse as Sherlock implied, and he was a doctor. He knew when someone was high, and he had seen Sherlock high before, but he hadn't seen him high in years. Sherlock could have kept those drugs hidden forever, or used them, but he had admitted them to John, and allowed them to be disposed of.

It was late, and John wanted a bed. Sarah had a new boyfriend who would probably not appreciate another man spending the night, even if it was on the sofa. Lestrade's bachelor flat didn't even have a sofa. The Stamfords were away on a family holiday, and his only other friend in the area, Kevin, was having marital problems and would probably already be on his sofa. John briefly thought about renting a hotel for the night, but decided he didn't have the money to spend.

Walking back to Baker Street, John remembered when he was a teenager and how his own father would storm out of the house after loud arguments with Harry. He had considered his father to be decent enough. He had been strict, but caring, if not very affectionate. He had been a very traditional man, and fathers of that generation just didn't show a lot of affection. John disagreed with that part, he wanted to show Hamish just how much he cared for him.

Despite himself, a small smile creased John's face. All day he'd worried that he made the wrong decision to help with Sherlock's son, and now he was thinking that he should be sure to hug the child regularly.

John made it up to his room without seeing Sherlock, for which he was glad. He decided to give Sherlock, and Hamish, another chance, but he was still suppressing an urge to punch Sherlock.

000

When John walked down from his bedroom the next morning, he was greeted by Sherlock, holding Hamish.

"Excellent, John, you're up!" The detective exclaimed.

"Yup," John replied, ducking into the bathroom and slamming the door shut. Sherlock was a bit too excited this morning. John thought a hot shower might put him in a better mood for dealing with him.

The shower didn't improve his mood as much as he hoped, so John headed for a cup of tea. Upon walking into the kitchen, however, he stopped suddenly. On the table was a steaming cup of tea, two slices of toast, and a bowl of cereal. Sherlock appeared in the kitchen doorway, without Hamish.

"It was an old stash, from before," Sherlock explained. "I tried to tell you several times to get rid of it, but for some reason it was always too hard. But I never touched it. I'm clean."

"I want to believe you," John said. "I need to be able to trust you, if we're going to work together, or be friends, or…parents."

Sherlock nodded, and looked at the floor. "Whatever you want," he answered. "Random drug tests, searching the flat, anything."

John stared at his flatmate for a moment before deciding to accept the apology. "You know, you're handling this better than I am," he sighed, gesturing towards the bedroom, where he assumed Hamish was in his crib.

Sherlock chuckled. "I almost had a panic attack on the sidewalk and was in a cab to take him to the surgery so you could get rid of him for me!"

"Well of course, that's a normal response," John giggled. "He's just lucky you're not normal."

John took a sip of the tea. Sherlock interpreted this gesture as John forgiving him, and immediately resumed his excitement from earlier.

"Excellent, John, you're just in time for my next experiment!" Sherlock exclaimed, and dashed off to his bedroom.

John groaned. "What chemical do I have to procure now?" he asked.

"No chemicals this time!" Sherlock yelled from the bedroom. "Just peel one banana."

John picked up a banana from the counter and peeled it. He really hoped he had heard Sherlock correctly, or he was going to feel silly holding it. He supposed he could just put it on his cereal.

Sherlock returned, with Hamish, and settled the baby into his new high chair. Hamish looked around his new seat, a little curious about it. Sherlock grabbed the banana from John's hands, smashed it a little, and dropped it unceremoniously onto the high chair tray.

"I'm going to see if he will eat solid food," Sherlock explained, grinning widely. "My hypothesis is that he will, considering he tries to chew on everything he gets his hands on."

True to form, Hamish grabbed a handful of banana and brought it to his mouth. John laughed, and encouraged him.


	8. Chapter 8

John worked the evening shift at the surgery the next day, and when he came home he could hear Hamish crying as soon as he entered the front door to 221b. He ran up the seventeen steps to the flat, terrified about what he would find.

Sherlock was standing in the center of the lounge, talking on his phone. His purple dress shirt was smooth and tucked into his dark trousers, and his dark curls were neatly brushed. All in all John thought he looked remarkably calm despite the screaming baby he was holding in one arm. Hamish had thrown his head back, and tears streamed down his bright red face, mixing with snot and drool.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said into his phone. "I do not have time to explain, so no questions, please. I simply need an answer from you. I am currently in possession of a six month old baby boy who has been crying incessantly for the past 90 minutes. He has been fed, burped, and changed, and shows no signs of injury or illness. He has no interest in toys or books, and if placed in his crib his screams intensify. How should I soothe him?"

John entered the room and took the poor baby from Sherlock. Hamish buried his face in John's chest but continued crying, and kicked his little legs. John could feel his shirt dampening from the tears.

"Hmmm," Sherlock replied to whatever Mrs. Hudson had said. "Don't you think he's a bit old for colic?" After a pause, he continued, looking rather surprised, "Really?" Another pause, then, "Ok, thank you Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock hung up the phone and looked at John. "She said we should place him on a running washing machine," he stated simply.

"Oh, um, ok," John agreed, a little nervous and not nearly as confident as Sherlock sounded. "I think my mum used to drive me around in a car. A washing machine sounds like a good substitute."

They headed down to the laundry room in the basement. John wished they had thought to grab some dirty towels or something to wash, but as it was they just started the empty machine. As is started to hum and vibrate, John gingerly set Hamish on the closed lid, holding him loosely so he wouldn't fall. The machine didn't have any effect though; Hamish continued his sobs.

"Should we try and get a cab, to drive him around?" Sherlock asked.

"How long do you think a cabbie will put up with a screaming baby?" John answered.

"Alright, back upstairs," Sherlock commanded, and lead the way.

"What are we going to do?" John asked, holding Hamish close and patting his back. He was already starting to panic, he didn't know how Sherlock had remained calm after dealing with this for an hour and a half.

"The same thing I do when you wont stop screaming in the night," Sherlock yelled.

John could hear the faint strains of the violin as he headed upstairs. He wasn't sure the name of the piece, something by Vivaldi he thought, but he did recognize it. He would often hear it when he woke up from a particularly bad nightmare. It was very calming and soothing, and always lulled him back to sleep. He was embarrassed to admit he had never realized that Sherlock's violin had always been there for him after a nightmare. He didn't like to talk about the nightmares, and Sherlock had never mentioned them.

It took a few minutes, but eventually Hamish's cries became hiccups and sniffles. Sherlock continued playing until Hamish had fallen asleep on John's chest, exhausted from his fit.

"Thank you," John whispered, both for himself and Hamish.

Sherlock just shrugged. He set the violin down in a chair and stretched out on the sofa.

"My mother used to play for me," he said. "I do have experience with difficult children, having been one myself."

"I can imagine," John muttered.

"Don't imagine it, John, you'll just upset yourself again."

John chuckled, and Hamish wriggled, but remained asleep. "You're very patient with him," he said.

"Of course I am," Sherlock answered. "I'm a very patient person."

John snorted and tried to quietly stifle his laughter. "Since when?" he managed to wheeze.

Sherlock scowled. "I've been waiting patiently for the chemicals in my experiment to finish their reactions. Its taken days!"

"Ok," John allowed, "you're patient when it comes to the laws of nature and physics. But you're not patient with people."

"No, I'm not patient with idiots," Sherlock corrected. "And most adults just happen to be idiots. Children can be clever and interesting, until they grow up and are taught to think differently and then they become insufferable. But a child as young as he is isn't capable of logical thought or impulse control. Therefore he cannot be an idiot."

"You know," John said, a little nervous again, "hopefully we can prevent him from turning into an idiot, but there's no guarantee he'll be brilliant. What if he's not a genius, like you, what if he's only average?"

"Like you?" Sherlock asked, his brow furrowed as he looked curiously at John.

"Yes, well, sort of," John stumbled. "I mean, I realize he has your genius genes and not my average ones, but still, what if…"

"John, I want you to know that despite you not having any biological relationship with him, and irregardless of whatever paperwork Mycroft can produce, I consider him not only my son but _our_ son. I'm still researching the effects of nature versus nurture in the development of children, but with my nature and your nurture he certainly has the best opportunities possible. Being a genius is a very difficult life. If he grows up to be as average as you are, then he will be amazing and I will be pleased."

"Thank you," John smiled.

"Really, I just want him to grow up smarter than Anderson," Sherlock muttered.

"I think he's already smarter than Anderson," John giggled.

OOO

The next morning yielded a beautiful, warm spring day. Sherlock was up early to complete the last phase of his experiment, and Hamish was now all smiles as he sat in John's lap for his breakfast bottle.

"I think I'm going to take him to the surgery today," John said through a bite of toast. "He's due for some shots, and I can introduce him to everyone. They want to see the little guy I was talking about all day yesterday."

"Perfect," Sherlock muttered. He already had his goggles on and was busily examining his chemicals. "This may produce some fumes, he should be out of the flat for it."

"Alright, just make sure the air is breathable by the time we return."

"When are you returning?" Sherlock snapped up, suddenly focused on John.

"I'll give you until noon," John laughed.

Sherlock checked his watch. "Maybe if I open the windows," he mumbled, "and set up some fans." He dashed around, trying to create some ventilation. John shook his head and carried Hamish to the new stroller.

Doctor Wright administered Hamish's vaccinations and pronounced him to be a healthy baby boy. He was a bit small on the growth chart, but quite advanced with his babbling and attempts to crawl towards objects or drag them to himself. Sarah and all of the nurses gushed over his large blue eyes and dark curls.

John had a few hours to kill before they could return to the flat, so he decided to take Hamish through the park. He set the baby in the grass, and let him play with some flowers and leaves. The park had been an innocent idea, and John didn't have a plan other than something nice for Hamish to do, but he soon realized the dating myth about single men with babies was true. Women stopped to coo over the adorable baby, and when they realized John was single, they started to flirt with the adorable man. By noon John had a date lined up for the weekend, and a phone number for another woman in case the date didn't work out.

Approaching the flat, all of the windows were still open, but John didn't see any green smoke pouring out of them, so he decided it would be safe to enter. Sherlock was at his computer, typing up his results and conclusions.

"How'd it go?" John asked.

"Excellent," Sherlock answered. "Very astounding results. I'll let you read the report when I'm done."

"Sure," John replied, setting Hamish in the floor next to Sherlock. "Here, you need to watch him. I'm going to meet Mrs. Hudson."

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock stopped typing and looked up at John.

"Yes, remember, she's coming home today? I'm going to meet her at the train station and help her with her luggage, so she doesn't have to worry about finding a porter."

Sherlock just growled. Whatever was upsetting him, John ignored it, and left to catch a cab.

OOO

"Sherlock!" John yelled as he dragged Mrs. Hudson's suitcases into the building. "We're home!"

"Obviously!" Sherlock yelled back through the open door of the flat. John looked up the staircase expectantly, but Sherlock did not appear.

"Just set those inside, dear, thank you," Mrs. Hudson said as she held open the door to her flat for John. "Would you like to have some tea with me?"

"Of course," John smiled. "Let me put the kettle on. You must be tired from your trip." He walked into her kitchen and pulled out his phone.

_Are you coming down? – JW_

_No. Why would I? – SH_

_To welcome back Mrs. H? To introduce her to Hamish? – JW_

_Now is not a good time. – SH_

"What?" John muttered, staring at the last text. "Mrs. Hudson, I'll be right back, I need to check on Sherlock."

John hurried up the stairs and into his own flat. Sherlock was holding Hamish, and both were pouting.

"What happened?" John asked. "Are you two alright?"

"Yes, we're fine," Sherlock snapped. "He's just fussy. I think he should be happy when we show him to new people. People like happy babies."

"He's not screaming like he was last night, he's fine," John answered. "Come on, I didn't tell her yet, I wanted it to be a surprise."

"No. Not yet."

"Why – Oh!" John grinned at Sherlock. "You're anxious. You're afraid of what she'll think."

"Don't be ridiculous! I don't care what people think."

"Bollocks," John replied, crossing his arms. "You might not care what most people think, but you _do_ care about Mrs. Hudson."

"What if she doesn't like him?" Sherlock whined.

"She loves you, and she will love him. Come on." John poked and prodded Sherlock until he was out the door and downstairs. He stopped in the doorway of Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Sherlock, dear, do come in," Mrs. Hudson said as she walked out of the kitchen. "How are you – oh!" she cut herself off as she saw Hamish.

"Is this the little dear who was having a good cry last night?" she asked. Without hesitation, she took the baby from Sherlock and cuddled him close. Hamish was still fussy and buried his face in her chest. "I know, sometimes you just need a good sulk," she smiled and patted Sherlock's cheek. "Are my boys working on a case for your parents?" she asked the baby.

"Nope," John grinned, and poked Sherlock in the ribs again.

"He is my son," Sherlock said quietly.

"Oh, my!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

"His mother…left," Sherlock continued.

Mrs. Hudson looked from Hamish, to John, to Sherlock, and then rushed to plant big kisses on both men's cheeks. "Oh, don't worry about that dear," she said to Sherlock. "I know a thing or two about picking the wrong partner myself. This is wonderful! And your timing is perfect! You know, Mrs. Turner's boys are trying to adopt. They can play together!" She bustled into the kitchen to get the singing kettle, still cuddling Hamish, who was enjoying the snuggle. John laughed and went to help with the tea. Sherlock simply walked in and sat at the table.

"It will be so nice to have a little tyke running around," Mrs. Hudson continued. She really was overjoyed with her new "grandson." "And don't you boys worry about a thing when you have a case. I will watch him, anytime, day or night. We need you to keep the city safe for us, don't we, love?" she tickled Hamish's chin, and he giggled at her.

John sat down next to Sherlock and handed him a cup of tea. "Told you," he whispered from behind his own cup. Sherlock rolled his eyes.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: I tried to think of a good crime for the boys to solve, but couldn't come up with one, so I adapted one of Arthur Conan Doyle's stories. The characters and plot come from The Valley of Fear, by ACD, and are his property.

* * *

The next week at Baker Street passed in a far better manner than John Watson could have ever guessed, especially considering the addition of an infant and the lack of any new cases. He took advantage of the peace and worked as many shifts at the surgery as he could; normally by this point he would have to stay home to ensure Sherlock didn't blow up the flat or harm himself out of boredom. John did feel a twinge of sadness that he couldn't spend all day with Hamish, and he always looked forward to seeing the baby after work.

Hamish had eaten a bit of the banana. He had also eaten some yogurt, some rice cereal, and a little saag paneer the night they ordered Indian takeaway. Although after changing the next diaper, John thought maybe they should wait a while before trying to feed him more Indian food. John took care of all of the feeding and diapering when he was home, as Sherlock did it while John was at the surgery. At least, John assumed Sherlock did it, because Hamish was always clean and well fed when he returned home, and Mrs. Hudson denied doing it. Sherlock was also apparently bathing the baby, if the plastic boats that had appeared in the bathtub were any indication.

John's quip about Sherlock not sleeping through the night turned out to be true. Not once had John been awoken in the middle of the night because of a crying baby, although he suspected Hamish didn't sleep all the way through. One night, around 2 am, he had headed down to the bathroom when he saw Sherlock, holding a wide awake Hamish, pacing in the dark lounge, illuminated only from the streetlights coming through the large front windows. Sherlock was saying something to the baby, in what sounded like rapid French, and the image was so sweet that John didn't want to interrupt it. He silently went back up to his room.

Hamish was a very expressive baby. He giggled, babbled, squealed, screamed, cried, then cheered up and started giggling again. John made sure to always have a variety of toys within Hamish's reach, as the baby was always happier when he had something to do. He was starting to try to push and scoot himself towards new objects, and John was sure crawling was imminent.

Hamish would sit quietly, for a little while, and listen if they read to him. Sherlock would lay on the couch, Hamish curled on his chest, and read _March's Advanced Organic Chemistry_ aloud. John initially thought this was ridiculous, but Sherlock explained that Hamish enjoyed the tone of voice and the experience more than the actual words, so John started reading aloud his latest spy novel to the baby. He did want to acquire some children's books soon, though.

Despite the relative peacefulness, John was anxious for a new case. Parenthood had initially prevented Sherlock from being bored, but John was noticing that the distraction was wearing off. Whenever Hamish napped Sherlock would become irritable, pacing around, drumming his fingers on his desk, snapping and whining that he was bored. Hoping to avoid any further problems, John constantly checked his blog for new clients, and repeatedly texted Lestrade, Dimmock, Gregson, and the other Yarders.

Picking up the mail one afternoon, John noticed another envelope with no postmark on it. He sighed as he opened it, wondering what Mycroft had sent them now. Inside there was only one small scrap of paper, but instead of words there were only strings of numbers on it. Confused, he flipped it over and looked inside the envelope again, but saw nothing to indicate what the note was about.

John entered his flat and saw Sherlock perched in his armchair, his knees pulled up to his chin, a scowl on his face. "Hamish napping?" John asked. Sherlock only grunted in response.

"Here, we got this with today's mail," John said, handing Sherlock the envelope. "Any ideas what its about?"

"Of course I have ideas, John," Sherlock snapped, snatching the envelope. "Cheap envelope, made of thin paper, the type you can purchase at any pound shop. The smudges indicate someone held it wearing dirty gloves, I doubt there will be any fingerprints. Slightly crumpled, someone stuffed it in their pocket before they deposited it in our mail slot." Sherlock paused to remove the note from the envelope. "More cheap quality readily available paper, and more smudges from the gloves. Ink from a standard ballpoint pen. I could go on, but its fairly obvious who this is from; I recognize the handwriting. Also, its written in a Gronsfeld cipher that he and I have agreed upon. Its from Porlock, and says, "There is danger – may come very soon – one Douglas – rich country now at Birlstone House – Birlstone – confidence is pressing."

"Who's Porlock?" John asked.

"Informant, a member of my homeless network."

"If there's danger maybe we should look into it," John said, excited to finally have a case. "He probably wouldn't have sent you a message if it wasn't important."

"Call Lestrade," Sherlock growled. "This is a four. I can't possibly waste time on a four." He threw the note and envelope on the floor and started pacing in front of the large windows looking over Baker Street.

John sighed, but before he could text Lestrade, his phone buzzed.

_"Murder at Birlstone Manor. Meet us there?" – GL_

John's eyebrows shot to the top of his head. "Sherlock, did you see this?" he exclaimed. "This has to increase it to an eight at least." He quickly replied to Lestrade's text saying they were on the way.

Sherlock just snorted, and sent his own text message. "This only proves that my informants do a good job. Still a four."

John groaned, but before he could argue, his phone rang.

"What is going on?" Lestrade's frustrated voice came over the phone. "You're begging me for a case, and finally I get a good one, but he says he doesn't want it?"

"Oh God," John sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Look, we want the case. I don't know what his problem is, you know how moody he is. Just, just give me some time and I'll get him out there."

"Baker Street is on my way," Lestrade replied. "I'll come give you a hand dragging him out."

John rushed downstairs to enlist Mrs. Hudson's babysitting services, before continuing to coax the detective into action. "We haven't had a case in weeks. So what if it's only a four, it should at least be something interesting to do this afternoon?"

"John, how can you be so callous?" Sherlock yelled. "I can't just leave him alone all afternoon while I go looking into tedious murders."

"He won't be alone," John explained, "Mrs. Hudson is coming up. And we'll be back in a few hours."

"No," Sherlock pouted. "He needs me here."

John opened and closed his mouth a few times, looking curiously at Sherlock. Was the world's only consulting detective retiring to become a full-time father?

"Sherlock, just because he's here doesn't mean you have to stop solving cases," John said patiently. "I know things are going to be different, but we can make it work."

"What if he forgets me?" Sherlock whined.

"Parents go to work all the time, and their children don't forget them," John replied, trying not to laugh. "He remembers who I am, and I've been going to work every day."

"What if I forget him?" Sherlock's voice was so low it was almost a whisper, and he frowned as he stared at the floor. "I know how focused I get. You complain all the time that I never think of you when we're on a case. But you're an adult, you can take care of yourself. What if I forget to do something for him? Something important?"

"I'll remind you," John smiled.

Sherlock pouted, unconvinced. Before John could continue, he heard footsteps on the stairs leading up to the flat. He assumed it was Lestrade, but there were obviously more people with him. Sherlock growled.

"Have you really become so dependent on me that you can't handle a simple murder alone?" Sherlock sneered as Lestrade entered the flat, Donovan and Anderson behind him. "I would think even your lot could handle a four."

"Oh, this is a ten, trust me," Lestrade answered, holding up the notes he had taken down from the officers at the scene.

"You don't even know what the rating system is," snapped Sherlock. He crossed his arms and refused to take the notes.

"If the freak doesn't care, why are we here?" grumbled Donovan. Sherlock rolled his eyes at her.

"Sherlock, you need to get back to work," John tried to intervene between the detective and the sergeant. "He wouldn't want you to give up the Work for him."

"Not at all," Lestrade agreed. "He needs you to be at your best, and you need to work."

"Well, I can't go now anyway," Sherlock pouted. "He's sleeping. I should explain things to him first."

"Who is 'he'?" Anderson interrupted, looking from Sherlock to John to Lestrade.

Before anyone could answer, a loud cry came from the bedroom.

"Good job, Anderson, you woke him up," Sherlock grumbled and glared at the officer before stomping off to the bedroom.

"Actually, that was a good job," Lestrade whispered. "Now he can't use that excuse anymore."

Sherlock came back to the lounge, holding a sleepy eyed Hamish in one arm. "This is Anderson," he said to the baby, "he's an idiot. I don't want you spending time with him."

Anderson and Donovan stared open mouthed at the appearance of Hamish. "The freak has a baby!" Donovan exclaimed.

"And this is Donovan," Sherlock continued. "She's mean so I don't know why anyone would want to spend time with her."

Donovan sneered and opened her mouth, but Lestrade interrupted her.

"Alright, thats enough you lot. Hey, little guy," he said, taking Hamish's little hand. "I'm your Uncle Greg. Remember me?"

"Gah!" Hamish answered.

"Exactly!" Lestrade beamed. "I need your Dad to come to work with me for a while, is that alright?"

"He's already said he doesn't want the case," whined Donovan. "Let's leave Mr. Mum here. The real detectives will solve this crime."

Sherlock sneered at her and snatched the notes from Lestrade's hand. John took Hamish and handed him over to Mrs. Hudson, who had come upstairs behind the police officers. John quietly ushered Mrs. Hudson out of the room, thinking a quick separation would be best for both Hamish and Sherlock.

"Did you write this down correctly, Lestrade?" Sherlock said, reading the notes.

"Yes," Lestrade sighed. "That's what the officer on the scene found."

"Its good that you came," Sherlock straightened up and grabbed his coat and scarf. "This really is too much for you to handle." He glared at Donovan and Anderson before heading downstairs to hail a cab. Lestrade and John shared a quick smile, and Lestrade winked. They had learned a few tricks on how to deal with Sherlock.


	10. Chapter 10

A/N: Again, this crime is not my plot, its from Arthur Conan Doyle's "Valley of Fear."

* * *

Sherlock slid into the back seat of the cab, his eyes glistening with excitement as he thought over the few facts he had so far. John smiled as he climbed in beside his friend. It had been far too long since they had had a good case.

"So what do we know?" John asked, but he was only halfway expecting an answer. Surprisingly, Sherlock did answer.

"John Douglas, found dead in his study. The house has a state of the art alarm system, still armed and showing no evidence of tampering. The perimeter cameras show nothing. The murder weapon, a double-barreled sawn-off shotgun, was found lying on the corpse's chest, along with a business card. The only thing written on the card was the initials V.V., and the number 341."

"Wow," John said. "Think it could be a professional?"

"Mmmmm," Sherlock replied absently. "Look up John Douglas, of Birlstone Manor." He leaned back into the cab's seat and stared off into space, piecing together bits of information and formulating theories.

John pulled out his phone and started searching, but it was difficult to find information on someone with so common a name. Finally he found some related articles after cross-referencing his search with Birlstone.

"He's American," John read, squinting at the small screen on his phone. "Made a lot of money in California before moving to England. He's married, his wife is from London. Here's a picture, she's very attractive, and looks to be twenty years younger than he is. Lucky bloke. I would place him in his fifties, square jaw, mustache-"

"We left him!" Sherlock yelled and leaned forward, interrupting his own thoughts and John's report.

"Wha-?" John began, before realizing what Sherlock was yelling about. "Oh, Hamish? Yes, we left him with Mrs. Hudson."

Sherlock stared open mouthed at John for a moment before throwing up his arms and flopping back into the cab seat and pouting. "This is not good," Sherlock muttered. "I'm too distracted."

"Are you telling me that brilliant mind of yours can't handle more than one thought at a time?" John teased.

"Of course not," Sherlock snapped. "Its so easy for you, with your simple little mind, isn't it? It doesn't matter if you can't think clearly, you aren't the only chance we have to solve this crime!"

John scowled. Sherlock rapidly drummed the fingers of his left hand on his knee and stared out the cab window. "This was a mistake," he mumbled.

"Which part," John asked gently. "Taking Hamish, or taking this case?"

Sherlock only growled in response.

"I think-" John began.

"I should hope so," Sherlock snapped. "I was beginning to wonder if you even had the ability."

"Tosser," John muttered before starting over. "I think that you've been doing an amazing job with Hamish. I'm actually very impressed with you. But I also think you can continue solving cases like before. He'll be fine with Mrs. Hudson for a while, and you'll be fine leaving him for a few hours. Don't worry about him, just focus on the case. I'll check in with Mrs. Hudson periodically, and if there's anything you need to know about I'll tell you. Ok?"

Sherlock didn't give any sign he agreed, but he didn't spit out an insult either.

John tried to give the appearance of calm and confidence, but he was trying to convince himself as much as Sherlock that they could continue to work cases. It was obvious to him that the detective couldn't go on much longer without a case, but John knew he needed the excitement just as much. Sherlock's devotion to the baby was nothing short of shocking, and John didn't want to deprive Hamish. John felt more than a little guilty, like he was stealing Sherlock away from his son. He kept telling himself that this was no different than what any other working parent had to do.

"Ok," John said, looking back at his phone. "Apparently this Douglas fellow is a local hero. He rushed into a burning church to save the vicar and-"

"I didn't kiss him goodbye," Sherlock interrupted.

"Um, well," John frowned, a little shocked at Sherlock's statement. "I didn't think you were that big on, you know, sentiment."

"You always kiss him goodbye before you go to work. Was I supposed to?"

"I don't know if there is a rule saying you are 'supposed' to," answered John. "I guess its whatever you're comfortable with. Did your father kiss you goodbye when you were little?"

"Of course not, he would never show that much emotion."

"How about your mother?"

"If I was good."

"Wow," John's raised his eyebrows in surprise. Ever since Hamish's arrival John had been very curious about Sherlock's childhood, but there appeared to be several issues there and John wasn't sure he wanted to get into them all right now. "Well, my father didn't show a lot of emotion either, but my mum was pretty affectionate. She was embarrassing sometimes, but it made me feel good to know she loved me."

Sherlock didn't respond, he just leaned back and stared straight ahead, clearly thinking through things in his head. John went back to his phone, but he couldn't find any more information about John Douglas.

The cab pulled up to Birlstone Manor, a large, old house in Kensington. A wide creek ran through the manicured front lawn, reminding John of a medieval moat. As the two men crossed the police tape, Sgt. Donovan whispered something to the PC on the perimeter, and the two police officers giggled.

John Douglas lay sprawled out on the floor of his study. He was laying face up, but his face had been completely obliterated by the shotgun blast. Sherlock approached the body, holding his hands up and stepping deliberately, recording every detail of the room.

John stayed back in the doorway of the study. He could hear more officers whispering and snickering behind him, but he only stuck out his jaw and ignored them. He hoped they found some new source of gossip soon and forgot about him and Sherlock.

"Who identified the body?" murmured Sherlock.

"James Baker," Lestrade answered. "He's a friend of Douglas' from America, and he's been staying here a few weeks. He found the body and called us."

"Did the wife confirm his identification?" Sherlock asked. "Its not as if we can compare his face to his picture."

"The wife hasn't seen him," said Lestrade. "Baker told her it was too gruesome, sent her back to her bedroom."

Sherlock straightened up and stared at Lestrade. "And she stayed there?" he asked, incredulous. Lestrade shrugged.

"John!" Sherlock turned and yelled. "If someone had told you I'd been shot, would you retire to your room, or would you want to see my body?"

"I would want to see you for myself, of course," John answered.

"And yet the wife doesn't have enough regard for her husband to come to his side," Sherlock remarked. "Certainly not the type of wife I'd want."

"I don't think she's your _type_ at all," whispered Anderson. John sighed, but he had to admit that Sherlock set them up for that comment.

"I didn't even know you were pregnant, Watson," Donovan added. This elicited a new round of giggles.

John turned and glared at her. If she wanted to be nasty, he could play that game. "What's wrong, Donovan, jealous? Biological clock ticking?"

That hit a sore spot. Donovan opened her mouth to respond, but Lestrade's stern voice turned their attention back to the case.

"So you think the wife's guilty?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"Doubtful," Sherlock shrugged. "Porlock wouldn't have sent me a message about a simple domestic incident."

"What? Who?" Lestrade yelled. "You knew about this murder beforehand? How? Dammit, Sherlock, you can't keep information like that to yourself!"

"An informant told me that something dangerous was going to happen here," Sherlock sighed, obviously bored with the conversation. "John and I were about to do our civic duty and notify you, but you called upon us before we got the chance."

Lestrade gaped at Sherlock, then turned to stare at John. John nodded, confirming Sherlock's statement.

"I need to know who this informant is!" Lestrade yelled. "He could be a witness!"

"Not likely," Sherlock said, continuing his examination of the body. "The message said 'danger' not 'murder'. Danger could refer to assault, kidnapping, arson, any violent crime. He obviously did not witness this. Leave my informants alone."

Lestrade sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Sherlock had his magnifying glass out and was examining the dead man's hands.

"He's missing a ring," Sherlock announced.

"Yeah, we know," said Lestrade, pleased to have some information before the consulting detective. "He's missing his wedding band, he wore it below that ring with the rough gold nugget. It hasn't been located yet."

"Below that ring?" John asked. "So the murderer removed the gold ring, took the wedding band, and replaced the gold ring?"

Lestrade could only shrug. Sherlock pulled up Douglas' sleeve. The man's right forearm bore a curious mark, a triangle inside of a circle. It stood out as a brown scar, contrasting with the pale skin.

"That's not a tattoo," John observed. "That mark was burnt into his skin."

"Yes, several years ago, according to Baker," Lestrade read off of his notes. "It helped to identify the body. He doesn't know what it means or why its there, he said Douglas already had it when they met, and wouldn't talk about it."

"Get the body to Molly for a positive ID," Sherlock said, standing and removing his latex gloves. "I'll want to see transcripts of your interviews with Baker and the wife."

"Did you notice the mud and the bloody footprint by the window?" asked Anderson, perturbed as usual at being forced to wait while Sherlock examined the scene.

"Of course," answered Sherlock, standing with his back to the window. "Did _you_ notice that one of his dumbbells is missing?" He pointed to a lone dumbbell sitting under the desk.

"What does a dumbbell have to do with anything?" sneered Anderson.

"A lot more than the footprint does!" Sherlock yelled, and left the room with a flourish.

John followed Sherlock out into the front yard. The detective stopped in front of the window to the study, briefly looking at the flowerbeds in front.

"Could it have been a suicide?" asked John. "That would explain why the alarm wasn't tripped."

Sherlock frowned and cocked his head to the side, considering this possibility. "I suppose if the shotgun was sawn off short enough, you could aim it at your face." He reached his arms out in front of him and pantomimed aiming a long gun at himself. "Then by chance, when you fell, the gun could land on your chest." Sherlock fell backwards onto the yard, sprawling out in a manner similar to Douglas' body. Anderson saw him from the window and rolled his eyes.

"Before he got the gun he could have removed the ring and placed the business card on his shirt, possibly those are messages that his wife or friend may understand." Sherlock continued, still laying on the ground. "But then why would someone plant the mud and the bloody footprint in the corner? Why wouldn't the wife just report a suicide and become a merry widow? It doesn't make sense."

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin, staring at the sky as he thought. John shifted uncomfortably and wandered a few steps away. He looked around the yard, it really was a very nice garden. Lush bushes and vibrant flowers created a peaceful oasis in the city. He turned the corner of the house and was startled to see a woman sitting on a bench, nearly obscured by roses. He recognized her as Mrs. Ivy Douglas from the picture he'd seen on his phone. He was about to retreat, assuming she would want to be alone, when he heard her laugh.

John crept closer, hiding behind the greenery. She was talking to someone, but he couldn't make out the words. She was smiling though, and definitely laughing. Craning his neck, he saw that she was talking to a handsome young man. Unfortunately at that moment the young man saw John. He and Mrs. Douglas immediately became serious, and rushed back into the house.

"Well, you have the merry widow part right," John said as he walked back to Sherlock. "I just saw Mrs. Douglas and some bloke laughing in the garden."

"She doesn't appear to set the standard for marital loyalty," Sherlock answered from the ground. "She almost certainly has to be involved. If a murderer entered the home without setting of the alarm, why use a shotgun? The noise would be heard immediately. He wouldn't have time to take the man's wedding band – and replace the other ring – and escape out this window before the rest of the household came rushing into the room."

"So she or the other guy, probably Baker, murdered him," John concluded.

"Yes, but then we come back to the bloody footprint," Sherlock pointed out. "The footprint is an obvious blind, it was placed there purposely, you can tell by the way its splayed out. So really it implicates the wife and friend more than a third party. And why report a murder to the police? Why not claim it was suicide?"

Sherlock rolled his head to the side and looked towards the front yard. "John, do you have an umbrella with you?" he asked.

"Do I look like bloody Mycroft?" John huffed, holding out his obviously empty hands.

"Quite right," Sherlock agreed, leaping to his feet. "I need to think." He walked towards the street to hail a cab.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock hailed a cab and slid silently into the backseat, already lost in his thoughts. With the exception of giving the cabbie the address, John was silent, lest he disturb the detective and be evicted from the cab.

The case was interesting, Sherlock had to admit. Possibly an eight, but he couldn't concentrate on it. He usually had very little trouble ignoring everything and focusing on what he chose to think about, but occasionally he did find himself inexplicably preoccupied. He had decided that the only way to eliminate the distraction and avoid frustration was to answer his question: Should he have kissed Hamish goodbye?

John had suggested emulating his parents. It did have a certain logic, that one would learn to be a parent from one's own family. But Sherlock had usually tried to avoid his father, an action aided by what Sherlock considered the likelihood that Father also tried to avoid _him_, after giving up on trying to understand his youngest son. Mummy was much nicer and more patient, but she too was more likely to provide a wan smile rather than comfort.

Sherlock frowned. There was another memory darting around his head, one that he wished would just go back into the room he had designated for it in his Mind Palace. He would always claim he had deleted that memory and all the others like it, but it was a lie. He didn't know why he hadn't really deleted it. Sentiment, probably. And because of sentiment this memory was now taunting him.

_ He was five years old, and he had woken up after a nightmare. In his bare feet he silently padded to the bedroom next door to his own. He knew he was supposed to knock, but he didn't want to make a lot of noise, so he slowly opened the door and looked inside._

_ "Mycroft," he called out, just loud enough so that hopefully his brother would hear._

_ "Mmmppphh," was the only response he received from the mound under the blankets on the bed, but the acknowledgement was close enough to an invitation to enter. Sherlock had quickly scurried over to the bed, but stopped and stood nervously at its side. Mycroft was still laying under the covers, eyes closed, not looking at his little brother._

_ "I had a bad dream," Sherlock explained in a small voice. Mycroft did not respond, and Sherlock felt his lower lip start to tremble involuntarily._

_ Without a word, Mycroft raised his arm, creating a warm, dark tent with the blankets. Relieved, Sherlock quickly climbed under them and curled up into a ball. Mycroft lowered his arm, covering Sherlock with the smooth sheet and heavy blankets. Sherlock felt a kiss press into the top of his head, before Mycroft's breathing became heavy and regular again._

After indulging in the memory, Sherlock shoved it back in the room where it belonged. There were similar memories, when Mycroft had kissed him after he had skinned his knees or Father had yelled at him. Yes, at one time he had found comfort in such a sentimental action. He had reciprocated the behavior with Mycroft, kissing him after Mycroft had been lectured by Father or when he rolled his ankle on the staircase.

Those memories were childish, literally. He would never interact that way with Mycroft again. For most of his life Sherlock had been alone, and sentiment brought nothing but pain and weakness. He had learned to overcome such emotions, and functioned much better for it. But Hamish was a child (or would grow into one). Should he engage in childish sentimentality with him, or teach him early that sentiment was a weakness?

Without moving his head, Sherlock took a quick glance of John with his peripheral vision. John was looking out of the cab window, a small smile on his face. John had suffered and been alone, too. His family had disappointed him, his career had been taken by a sniper's bullet, and his best friend had (so he thought at the time) died in front of him. Yet John still embraced all of his emotions, and was even still smiling.

The cab arrived at Baker Street, and Sherlock climbed out and went inside, still without a word. John followed him up the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson was sitting in an armchair, watching the telly and feeding Hamish a bottle. When he saw his father enter the room, Hamish turned and smiled, spilling milk down his chin. He held up his arms, reaching for Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson handed over the baby, and made to return to her own flat.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," John told her. Sherlock stared silently at Hamish.

"Anytime, boys, he's such a sweet little dear," Mrs. Hudson replied as she left. "And I'm right downstairs if you need me again. I know how you like to run in and out when you're working."

Sherlock stared at Hamish a moment longer, then brought the baby up and placed a small kiss on his forehead. Hamish smiled again and wiggled happily. Sherlock catalogued the response – evidently Hamish enjoyed sentiment.

John chuckled, and Sherlock realized he was being watched. He rolled his eyes. "Here," he said, handing over the baby, "drool milk on your uncle."

Now he could finally focus on the case! Sherlock spun and flopped down onto his sofa, settling into his thinking pose once more. John wiped Hamish's chin and fed him the rest of the bottle before deciding to take the baby out for a walk to allow Sherlock to think in peace.

It was a beautiful spring evening, and a good time to get some fresh air, John thought. However, he didn't want to wander too far from the flat, in case Sherlock developed a plan and they had to run off again. So he pushed the stroller around the blocks surrounding his home. Hamish didn't seem to mind, looking all about as they went up and down the sidewalks.

On his third trip down Baker Street, John spotted a tall man in a suit leaning against an umbrella and waiting for him in front of the café.

"Evening, Mycroft," John greeted the diplomat. "Shall we get a cuppa?"

"John," was Mycroft's curt reply as he followed the doctor into the café.

"I thought you tried to avoid cafés," John asked as he settled Hamish's stroller next to their table.

"Yes, well, you are more amenable to meeting here than being driven to a more acceptable location in my car," Mycroft answered, giving the table a scrutinizing glare.

"Ta for that," John smiled, raising his cup towards Mycroft. "I'll be amenable then. What brings you here?"

"I wanted to see how you were doing with your new bundle of joy," said Mycroft.

"Quite well, thank you," John replied. Hamish indicated his agreement with some happy squeals and babbles. "By the way," John continued, "Sherlock thinks the only reason you gave us custody was to watch us fail so you could prove we shouldn't be raising him."

Mycroft frowned, considering this. "Well, its certainly not the most colorful conspiracy theory involving me," he stated. "However it is, like most of the others, completely false."

"Then why did you produce the paperwork?" John asked.

"I have underestimated both Sherlock's devotion and abilities in the past, and vowed to not make that mistake again. Besides, I knew you would not let the child be harmed." Mycroft smiled, but it was more reptilian than endearing.

John tried to smile around a mouthful of his sandwich. Each day with Hamish gave him more confidence, but he still felt a bit out of his depth. Mycroft looked down at the baby, who was happily waving an empty cup around, with a look that John would classify as fondness, if he didn't know Holmes' claimed to be above such emotions.

"You know," he said, swallowing his bite, "you are Hamish's uncle. You are welcome to come visit and spend time with him. I would invite you over for Sunday dinner, but I have a feeling I would be the only person eating."

Mycroft had refrained from ordering any food, and hadn't so much as touched his cup of tea.

"Sherlock would only believe I was spying on him," Mycroft scoffed at John's suggestion.

"I thought you two agreed to be less belligerent after the…ahem," John had to pause and clear his throat. "After the Fall." He still couldn't say it without a sharp glare at Mycroft.

"Yes, well, I have removed my surveillance teams from him, and you see what that resulted in," Mycroft nodded towards Hamish. "And I will give my little brother credit for no longer causing trouble in my club."

John chuckled, and felt his phone buzz. He glanced at the text and gulped down his last bit of tea. "This has been great, Mycroft, but I have to go, we're in the middle of a case," he said, standing and maneuvering the stroller away from the table. "Come to tea, you can spend time with your nephew while you and Sherlock argue about whether you're spying or not."

Mycroft frowned and absently waved John away.

John debated leaving Hamish with Mrs. Hudson before going upstairs to rouse Sherlock, but decided he could give the detective a chance to say goodbye properly this time.

Sherlock was still sprawled out on his sofa, just as John had left him. He had formulated a theory, explaining all of the evidence, but he did not like it. Not because of whom it implicated, he had no bias for who was guilty or not. No, he didn't like the familiarity of the case. His theory was that the body with its head blown off was _not_ John Douglas, that the man had faked his death, and that the wife was a very poor actress.

It had been nearly 18 months since he had returned to London, and to John. John claimed to have forgiven him, to understand his reasons, but Sherlock knew not all of the nightmares were of Afghanistan anymore. Would the completion of the case prove to John the necessity of lying to those closest to you, or would it remind him of his anger and sadness?

"Molly's got the results of her autopsy for us," John said, bringing Sherlock out of his trance.

Sherlock got to his feet and grabbed his coat. "Are you coming?" he asked.

"Well, yes, I'd like to," John answered, looking down at Hamish, whom he was holding. "But I do feel a bit guilty imposing on Mrs. Hudson for babysitting so often."

"We could take him with us," Sherlock suggested.

"No!" John yelled firmly. "No, no, definitely not! We are not taking him to crime scenes, or Scotland Yard, or the morgue!"

Sherlock pouted, and Hamish looked uncertainly from one man to the other while chewing on his little hand. Sherlock huffed and took the baby from John. "One day I will convince him to let you have fun," Sherlock whispered to the baby, before placing another kiss on his head and taking him downstairs to Mrs. Hudson.

OOO

"What?" John huffed, after the fifth sideways glance Sherlock had given him in the cab.

"Nothing," Sherlock mumbled, and stared out the window. Asking John to come along had been an automatic response, because he did so much enjoy having John along on cases. But this time he should have told John to stay home with Hamish. That way he could prevent John from ever knowing the outcome of the case, and avoid any problems. Yes, it would have been fun and exciting to bring Hamish, but if he hadn't been so impulsive he would have realized he had the perfect excuse to avoid hurting John. He would have to remain diligent for another opportunity to protect him.

OOO

The detective and the doctor arrived at St. Bart's as Molly finished briefing Lestrade and Donovan with her findings. She smiled as the two men entered the morgue. Sherlock did not acknowledge her, he just snatched the file containing the witness statements from Lestrade.

"Thanks for calling, Molly," John returned her smile.

"Oh, no problem," she answered. "I'm glad you two have a case again. How's um, how's Hamish?"

Donovan's head snapped up at the mention of the name, and John suppressed a grin. She was probably jealous that someone knew some gossip before she did. He remembered that Molly met Hamish when Sherlock brought him in for the paternity test.

"He's doing great," John replied innocently. "We've got him settled in at Baker Street. You should come by, I'm sure he'd love to see his Aunt Molly again."

"Yeah, sure," Molly agreed. "We could take him to the zoo."

Evidently Sherlock had not been ignoring them as John had thought. He suddenly looked at Molly and snapped, "Zoo? Why would he want to go to the zoo?"

Molly stammered, so John answered. "He loves going out and looking around. He has a great time at the park or even just strolling around the city."

"You're right, we should expose him to as many different experiences as possible," Sherlock said. "Molly, are you free on Friday?"

"Yes!" answered Molly. "Well, I could leave at lunchtime."

"Be at Baker Street by noon," muttered Sherlock, returning his attention to the case file. "This murder may be curious, but it will be solved by then."

Donovan rolled her eyes at the grin on Molly's face and went to wait by the door for Lestrade. John couldn't enjoy her reaction, he was groaning inwardly. He would have to have a long talk with Sherlock before they went to the zoo.

Sherlock scowled at the case file. There was nothing interesting at all. Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Baker had given predictable answers to predictable questions. They did not know where the gun came from, or why anyone would want to hurt John Douglas. The three of them had been alone in the house, along with the servants, and had not seen or heard anything until the gunshot. Mr. Baker had arrived at the study within 30 seconds of hearing the gunshot, but he saw no one leaving the room. It was customary for the alarm to be set, even while everyone was home during the day. Mr. Douglas had been nervous about crime, but they did not consider it unusual. He did not discuss his family or his past with them. Mrs. Douglas believed it was because his first wife had died of cancer several years ago, and he did not wish to relive that part of his life.

"This is rubbish," Sherlock growled at Lestrade. "You never ask the proper questions, you should start letting me interview witnesses."

Lestrade snorted. "I have enough trouble avoiding lawsuits against the police without you harrassing people."

"Well I certainly hope you at least have surveillance on the wife," Sherlock said.

"Oh yes," Lestrade chuckled. "Her and Baker both. We couldn't get enough to bring them in, but I don't like their story at all."

"There may be hope for you yet," Sherlock remarked, and turned to Molly. "What did you find?"

"Well, the cause of death is the obvious," she smiled. "Tox screen came back negative. He had a few broken bones that healed years ago, but no recent injuries."

Sherlock was leaning over the corpse, his face inches away from the dead man's limbs. "How did you identify him?" he muttered.

"We actually had his DNA in the database," Molly answered. "According to the file it was taken years ago when he was apparently drunk at a pub."

Sherlock stood up straight and stared. A positive DNA identification of this man as John Douglas did not fit into his theory at all. He contemplated what other options he had.

Could the DNA match be incorrect? Was the machine malfunctioning?

A sudden thought occurred to him. The previous DNA test conducted in Molly's lab was Hamish's.


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock was standing next to the faceless corpse of John Douglas, but he was not looking at it. He stared off into space, a look of shock on his face.

"Um, Sherlock," Molly asked hesitantly, "Are you ok?"

Sherlock looked down at the body again. Fine, it was Douglas. So his initial theory was wrong, that was all right, maybe there was something else going on and this case was actually interesting enough to make it all the way to a ten. He would have to gather more data, because the ID had to be correct, the DNA couldn't be wrong. Because Hamish was _HIS_.

Sherlock spun around, acknowledging the presence of the other people in the morgue. "Lestrade!" he yelled. "Inform the members of the Douglas household that you plan to drain their creek first thing tomorrow morning."

"What!" Lestrade answered. "What creek?"

"The one in the front garden," John provided. "I noticed it when we arrived."

"Oh, that creek," Lestrade said. "But I need a good reason to authorize an operation like that, and it certainly won't happen first thing in the morning. Its too late tonight to organize anything. What would I be looking for, we have the murder weapon and the body?"

"The freak just wants to see us crawling through the mud," mumbled Donovan.

Sherlock growled and threw his hands up in frustration. "As much as I would enjoy seeing you all tromping through the muck, I honestly don't care if you drain the creek or not! I just want you to _tell_ them that you are."

"Ok, ok, calm down," Lestrade relented. He got on his radio and informed the officers at the residence to notify Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Baker.

Sherlock quickly turned and rushed out of the room, his long coat flowing behind him. John hurried after him with a quick wave good-bye to Molly and Lestrade. John caught up just in time to be able to hop into the cab that Sherlock hailed. Sherlock, still agitated, gave the cabbie the address to Birlstone Manor.

Sherlock nervously tapped his fingers on his knees. What if Hamish was not biologically his son? He wondered if it was the biological connection that led him to quite unexpectantly bond with Hamish. Maybe that was why it took John longer to accept the baby. He frowned. He wanted to keep Hamish. He was composing a new lullaby for him on the violin, and was writing up some of his first experiments to share with the boy when he grew old enough. Would he change his mind if he found out the DNA results were incorrect?

John watched Sherlock stare pensively out the cab window, but assumed he was thinking about the case. "So what's in the creek?" he asked.

"I don't know yet," answered Sherlock. "But when a dumbbell is missing from a crime scene and there is a body of water nearby, it should be quite obvious to realize that someone has weighted down something and tossed it underwater. Since you don't have an umbrella handy that we can use to poke around the creek ourselves, we will let the guilty party do it for us. We will just have to wait and watch."

"We could swing by Mycroft's and borrow an umbrella if you don't want to wait," John quipped. The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched up a bit.

"That reminds me," John continued, "I saw Mycroft this evening, and I invited him to tea."

The smile on Sherlock's face turned into a grimace. "Why would you do such a thing?" he admonished.

"I don't know," John admitted. "He just looked like he wanted to spend time with Hamish."

Sherlock only groaned in response.

"Look, you can invite Harry over to get even at me," John offered.

This suggestion only made Sherlock wince more. "Do I have to be there while Harry is?" Sherlock asked.

"Only if I have to be there when Mycroft is," John replied. "Maybe we can both leave and Mycroft and Harry can just have tea." The two men stared at each other for a moment before giggling at the thought of their siblings having tea together.

"Oh!" Sherlock gasped and suddenly sat up straight. "A sibling! Of course!" He rubbed his hands together with glee.

"What?" John asked, not understanding the detective's actions. Sherlock looked over at John with excitement, but when he saw John's face his own fell. John wrinkled his forehead in confusion.

"John," said Sherlock slowly, "I don't think the body in the morgue is Douglas."

"But what about the identification, the mark on the arm and the DNA results?" John asked.

"I believe he has faked his death." Sherlock watched John as he said this. Would it bring back bad memories for his blogger? Would he be angry or sad? Still, it was best to deal with this now, alone, rather than when John's reaction might jeopardize the case.

"Oh," was John's only response, and he sighed deeply and sank into the cab seat. "Oh," he repeated.

Sherlock nervously squirmed in the cab seat. He had no idea what he was supposed to say or do. John had told him long ago to quit apologizing. Should he comfort him? How? John just stared out the window, not smiling.

"You know, John," Sherlock began nervously, "If I had confided in you, I believe you would have performed much more convincingly than Mrs. Douglas."

John scowled at Sherlock for a moment before bursting out in laughter. "She is pretty obvious, isn't she?" he giggled. Sherlock relaxed and returned John's smile.

OOO

As the cab pulled away from the entrance to Birlstone Manor, Sherlock nimbly lept up and over the fence.

"I thought they had motion sensors and perimeter cameras!" John called in a hushed voice.

"Oh, those have to be turned off now," Sherlock called back. "The police assigned to watch Mrs. Douglas and Mr. Baker are wandering around, they would set off the system. Now hurry up before one of them comes to this side of the yard."

John huffed, but after a few attempts he managed to pull himself up and over the fence, joining Sherlock in the heavily landscaped garden. There was no shortage of trees or bushes to hide behind as they crept towards the creek. They made their way along its edges from one side of the property to the other, before settling into a hiding place on the north side. Here the creek widened into a deeper pool before disappearing into an underground tunnel, and was the most likely place for a dumping spot.

John would never understand how Sherlock, a man so easily bored and demanding, could sit patiently for hours at a stakeout. It wasn't long before John himself was bored, and feeling cold and clammy from the dew. His shoulder was starting to ache, and his legs were stiff. He tried to silently adjust his position to a more comfortable one.

"I will dispatch a memo to the criminals of London," Sherlock whispered, "asking that they conduct their activities as regularly as the train schedule."

John glared at him in the darkness but stopped moving.

Finally they heard the rustle of foliage and the sound of soft footsteps on the ground. A figure, obviously male, crept to the shore of the creek and reached into it with a long stick. After a few tries he dragged a bundle up from the pool.

"Thank you, Mr. Baker," Sherlock said, approaching the man. Baker yelped in surprise and dropped the bundle. He turned to run, but was stopped by a strong forearm thrown up by a former soldier.

"You have prevented me from getting wet, and you can no longer deny your involvement," Sherlock continued. He bent to pick up the bundle, but before he could open it the officer assigned to Baker came running up.

"You there, drop it!" ordered the constable. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the young officer.

"I'm glad you're here," Baker said to the officer. "I caught these two men on the property."

Sherlock opened his mouth, but before he could begin insulting both Baker and the officer John broke in. "Just call DI Lestrade," he told the young man. "He'll straighten this out."

"Yes, yes he will," the officer replied, getting on his radio.

Lestrade was not pleased at being called to return to the crime scene at such a late hour, but it took him less than thirty minutes to arrive. The bundle that Baker had pulled from the creek contained bloody clothes, which Lestrade immediately had sent to the lab, and he ordered Baker to be taken back to the station.

John stepped away while Sherlock and Lestrade argued over whether or not Sherlock should be allowed to interview Baker. He had promised Sherlock that he would occasionally call Mrs. Hudson to check up on Hamish, although he really hoped the baby was asleep by this hour. Unfortunately he could hear the cries as soon as Mrs. Hudson answered the phone.

"He's just fighting his sleep," Mrs. Hudson explained over the phone. "He did take a short nap earlier, but now he's just so tired, but doesn't want to sleep."

"I'm really, really sorry," John apologized. "I'll try to get back soon."

"Oh, don't worry about me," Mrs. Hudson said. "I just feel so bad for the poor little dear."

"Did she play the CDs?" Sherlock snapped loudly.

It took John a moment to realize Sherlock's question was directed at him, not Lestrade. "Um, did you play the CDs?" he repeated to Mrs. Hudson. Her answer indicated she was as confused as he was as to which CDs. "What CDs?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I recorded some of his favorite music for him," he explained. "I also recorded myself reading him some stories. They are on your laptop."

Both John and Lestrade smiled at Sherlock as John relayed the information to Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock however was focused on the case again. "How about if I listen while you interview Baker?" he asked Lestrade.

Lestrade chuckled. "All right," he agreed. "But no interrupting me because I'm asking the 'wrong questions.'" Sherlock rolled his eyes, and headed to the street to catch a cab.

OOO

Lestrade had his police car, and arrived at New Scotland Yard before Sherlock and John's cab. He was drinking a cup of coffee outside the interview room when the detective and the doctor walked in. John was very jealous of that cup of coffee, and tried to stifle a yawn.

"You may as well go home," Lestrade told them. "Baker's not saying a word. He asked for his solicitor."

Sherlock scowled. "Your officer should have let me question him back at the house."

Lestrade only shrugged in response. Sherlock huffed and glared at the window of the interview room. Baker was sitting motionless in the room.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "So how's the baby-proofing of the flat coming along?" he asked softly.

Sherlock stiffened. "Fine," he muttered. Lestrade looked pointedly at John, and John realized he wasn't asking about the safe they had purchased for the guns and knives. John nodded.

"Good job," Lestrade grinned, taking another gulp of his coffee. "Now go home. I'll call you when I have something. And I expect you to do the same."

Sherlock pouted, but turned with John and headed out of the station and into a cab. John was pleased to note that it was silent when the entered 221b. Hamish was sleeping soundly in his crib, and Mrs. Hudson was asleep on the sofa. Sherlock frowned at her.

"John!" he whispered. "I need to be horizontal to think. I need my sofa!"

"You are not waking her up," John answered him. "She is doing us a favor. Lay down on the floor, or, God forbid, go get in your own bed."

Sherlock's scowl deepened and he flopped down in his armchair, sprawling out as horizontally as possible in it, resting his head on the back of the chair and splaying his legs out in front.

"I'm going to bed, I'll be upstairs if you need me," John said through a yawn. "Please don't need me for at least six hours."

Sherlock steepled his fingers beneath his chin and stared at the ceiling.


	13. Chapter 13

Two hours passed in silence, before Sherlock heard what he feared. At first it was very faint, the creaking of a mattress, the rustle of blankets. Then he started to hear low mutterings, and a whimper. Sherlock sighed. John was having a nightmare.

Normally he would play his violin, hoping to soothe John before the nightmare became worse. However, Mrs. Hudson was still on his sofa, and John had told him not to waken her. She would likely wake up if he started playing in the lounge, although she would also likely wake up if John started screaming. Hamish would probably wake up and start screaming as well. So Sherlock stood up and reached for his violin.

He started playing very softly, theorizing that if the music grew gradually Mrs. Hudson's sleep might not be interrupted. It worked. John did not scream, and stopped thrashing about in his bed. Mrs. Hudson's breathing remained deep and regular. Hamish didn't stir in his crib. Sherlock returned to his armchair, very proud of himself.

Sherlock had a few more hours of peace before morning. John's heavy steps came down the stairs, and Sherlock thought it probable that John had been awake for some time before getting out of bed. Sherlock did not move from the armchair, but watched his flatmate very carefully. The doctor's eyes were red, and had dark circles under them. John did not say "Good morning," or even head to the kitchen to make tea. He went to the bathroom, and then, as he was coming back into the lounge to his armchair, Sherlock saw it. The limp. It was only there for one step, before John sighed and sank into his chair, but it had been there.

John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft, everyone watched Sherlock for signs of a danger night. Sherlock watched for signs of John's danger nights.

Mrs. Hudson stirred on the sofa. She awoke complaining of how sore her hip was, which Sherlock did not understand, as he considered the sofa the most comfortable piece of furniture in the flat. John simply muttered a barely audible "morning," so it was left to Sherlock to assist Mrs. Hudson down the stairs to her own flat. He rushed back upstairs and flopped into his favorite spot, settling in contentedly.

"John!" he announced, loud enough for John to look up. "I need you to go to Douglas' neighborhood and ask after him. Find out if he was acting out of character recently."

John huffed. "Doesn't Lestrade have men for that kind of thing?"

"You know what kind of men Lestrade has," Sherlock answered. "More importantly, I need you to find out if Douglas still had his mustache."

"His mustache is the key to the case?" John sighed. "Fine, and what are you going to be doing while I'm investigating grooming preferences?"

"I need to check out some things at the morgue," Sherlock answered. "And I have some research to do in a few minor areas."

Hamish interrupted them with a little cry from his crib. Sherlock noted John's reaction - the doctor just sighed again and ran his hand over his face, but didn't move to get up. The detective lept to his feet and went to retrieve the baby. He deposited Hamish into John's lap and went to prepare a morning bottle before John could protest.

"What are we supposed to do with him all day?" John called. "We can't impose on Mrs. Hudson again, she's exhausted from yesterday."

Sherlock poked his head around the edge of the wall to observe John with Hamish. John wasn't smiling, but he was holding the baby close, and waving the plastic bumblebee for Hamish to grasp at.

"Take him with you," Sherlock answered. "You said he likes walking around the city."

"No!" John yelled. "I told you we are not bringing him into cases. We are not putting him in danger."

"For God's sake, John, you'll be visiting shopkeepers on High Street Kensington, not drug dealers in a slum. If that's dangerous, then I really don't understand your interview technique."

John scowled. Sherlock huffed and handed over the bottle, which Hamish eagerly started drinking.

"Then I'll take him with me," Sherlock said. "There's really nothing dangerous about the lab, he's been there before."

John's scowl deepened as he considered the options. "Fine," he muttered, "I'll take him with me. But if I run into anyone suspicious I am leaving immediately."

"Of course," Sherlock grinned.

John had agreed to go to Kensingtion with Hamish, but he dragged his feet getting dressed and gathering up the baby supplies. He was so slow that Sherlock became impatient enough to make tea himself. Finally, with some grumbling, John got the stroller and diaper bag and baby into a cab.

As the cab made its way through London, John looked over at Hamish, strapped securely in his baby carrier. John shook his head. He was ashamed at how easily Sherlock had convinced him to bring the baby along on a case. Maybe Sherlock was right, and Mycroft was just waiting for them to prove themselves unfit parents.

It was a beautiful spring morning in Kensington, and John had to admit that walking around the city felt a lot better than sitting around the flat. The fresh air and warm sunshine eased his exhaustion, and the neighborhood certainly wasn't dangerous. John decided to skip all of the department stores and only visit the one-off boutiques and cafes. He pretended to be an old friend of Douglas' from the army, come to town after hearing of the tragic death. It turned out to be a good story, as Douglas had always been reluctant to talk about his past and people readily accepted that the reason for this had been a traumatic military experience. John's red and sunken eyes gave him the look of grief over losing an old friend. And just as Hamish had attracted women at the park, he put people at ease and led them to answer more of John's questions than they might ordinarily have been comfortable doing.

After a few hours, John was definitely in a better mood. He had found a few shops that Douglas had visited the morning of his death, and even the café he had had lunch at. Everyone agreed that Douglas had been acting normally, and that he still had his mustache.

John was thinking that he had visited all of the places where he was likely to get any information, and was about to head home, when Hamish squealed and grunted and suddenly needed an emergency diaper change. John ducked into the closest business available, a pub that had just opened for lunch, and begged to use the bathroom. The bartender chuckled and pointed to the back.

John did not understand how such a small baby could have made such a big mess. Had Sherlock fed the child something that would result in this? He went through a large pile of wipes, attempted to wash Hamish in the sink, and was glad he had thought to bring the baby an extra outfit. Hamish giggled as John struggled to clean up everything.

Finally emerging from the bathroom with a clean baby, John felt he should at least buy a drink to thank the bartender. There were no other customers in the pub yet, so the bartender joined John in having a cup of tea. John kept to his story that he was an old army buddy of Douglas'.

"My, that's horrible," the bartender said after John told him of Douglas' murder. "He was just in here yesterday for lunch."

"Really!" John exclaimed. He had talked to a waitress in a café three blocks away who told him Douglas was there for lunch yesterday. What man had lunch twice in one day? John wouldn't even have gone into another lunch establishment if Hamish hadn't exploded.

"Yup," the bartender continued. "He seemed off though. And he had lost a lot of weight since I'd seen him last."

"How did he seem off?" John prompted.

"Not sure, he didn't say anything was upsetting him, and he acted normal enough. But it was the way he said everything. His accent was thicker."

"His accent?"

"Yup," the bartender said, "he was American, you know. You probably remember him always speaking with a thick American accent, him probably being in an American regiment with you in Afghanistan."

"Right, right, of course," John quickly agreed.

"Well, he'd been living here for a few years," explained the bartender. "You could definitely still tell he was American, but his accent was softening a bit. My wife's Canadian, and her accent gets noticeably stronger whenever she's upset. You don't have to worry too much unless she starts speaking French though."

John shared a laugh with the bartender.

"But yesterday," the man went on, "Douglas actually ordered 'French fries.' Even a tourist knows they're called chips!"

"Wow," John exclaimed, taking another sip of tea, and deciding to ask about the other thing Sherlock had requested. "Did he still have his mustache? I always remember him as a big strapping man with a mustache, not afraid of anything."

"No!" The bartender said, jabbing a finger in the air. "He didn't have the mustache yesterday! Which was odd as well, you know Americans and their facial hair."

John agreed, although he had no clue what American sentiment was towards facial hair. The bartender didn't have any more information, so John finished his tea and headed out. He quickly hailed a cab; he couldn't wait to tell Sherlock what he had learned.

"So you have your father's knack for solving crimes," John said to Hamish as the cab headed towards Baker Street. "You did a good job today. But I'm still not letting you on a crime scene until you're grown up."

Hamish smiled and gurgled some bubbles. John smiled back and chuckled.

OOO

Sherlock wasn't back to the flat yet, so John had tea with Mrs. Hudson, taking her some biscuits to thank her for watching Hamish the night before.

Sherlock arrived shortly, coming into Mrs. Hudson's flat with his usual flourish and throwing himself into a chair. Hamish squealed and held his arms out to his father.

"John!" Sherlock commanded, holding out his arms towards Hamish as well. John made a face, but couldn't hide his amusement as he lifted Hamish off of the blanket on the floor and handed him over to Sherlock.

John complied immediately, Sherlock noted. No hesitating, no favoring a stiff shoulder, no limping as he walked across the room. John was better now. It wasn't always so easy to fix John's moods, but giving him a task to complete, something to be responsible for, and the adrenaline of a case certainly helped. Sherlock smiled, very pleased with himself.

John told Sherlock all about visiting the shops and the café where the waitress said Douglas had had lunch. Sherlock made no indication he was listening until John told him the bartender's story.

"That's it!" Sherlock exclaimed. "Call Lestrade! We're going to confront the widow!"

"Um, ok," John answered, not seeing that they had much of anything to confront her with, but he made the call.

Sherlock stood and John reached out to take Hamish back from him.

"I'll stay here, with him," John said. "Go expose a murderer." John realized that for the first time, he didn't feel like he was missing out by staying with Hamish. He rather enjoyed spending time with the baby. He wasn't ready to skip all the casework, but an occasional stay at home wouldn't be so bad.

"Nonsense," Mrs. Hudson cut in. "Just because I woke up with a sore hip doesn't mean I can't hold a baby today. I meant in when I told you I would watch him, day or night, for a case." She took Hamish and ushered the two men out of the flat.

Sherlock would not explain his theory to John, but he was very excited, wriggling about during the cab ride. John grinned and tried to contain his own excitement.

"You're setting this up for some big dramatic reveal, aren't you," teased John.

"Of course I am," Sherlock grinned. "Life is too dull. Its needs drama."

Lestrade was already at Birlstone Manor, with a few of his officers, in the sitting room with Mrs. Douglas.

"Not here," Sherlock said brusquely as he walked straight through the sitting room, not greeting Lestrade or the widow. "I believe its in the master bedroom."

Lestrade looked at John for any clue as to what the detective was up to, but John only shrugged and followed Sherlock. Lestrade motioned Mrs. Douglas to follow as well. Donovan rolled her eyes as she joined the group.

Sherlock walked straight into the master bedroom and begin examining the walls, the floors, the baseboards, and the furniture. He tilted his head at a sharp angle, examining cracks in the wall with his magnifier. Twirling on one foot he walked to the other side of the room and repeated his examination.

"Excuse me," Mrs. Douglas said, sounding rather irritated. "I thought this was about my husband's murder. What are you doing?"

"This is about your husband, and a murder, but not your husband's murder," Sherlock flashed his false grin at the woman. "Please open this door." He pointed to a bookcase.

The shock on Mrs. Douglas' face was very evident before she managed to compose herself again. John had to admit that if you were going to fake your death, this was not a woman you wanted to cover for you.

"Four years ago you applied for a building permit for a safe room," Sherlock explained. "Your husband has been hiding in it ever since his brother's death. I would rather he be out here for the rest of my explanation, I don't want him to miss anything."

Mrs. Douglas spluttered in surprise, and Lestrade motioned for two officers to move the bookcase. It would not move from its spot against the wall. Mrs. Douglas silently stepped forward, removed a book, and entered an access code into the hidden keypad. The bookcase swung open, revealing a tiny room, and John Douglas.

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Douglas cried, going to her husband.

"It's all right, Ivy," he consoled her. "Its not your fault."

Now that his audience was complete, Sherlock spun around and began his rapid explanation of events.

"Mr. Douglas, yesterday your brother, your twin brother, visited you here in your home. You didn't want his visit known, you didn't tell anyone besides your wife and your friend Baker, but you were not distressed by it. You returned home in time to meet him, and you let him in the house without triggering the alarm. If his presence was noted on any of the cameras, people would likely think it was you, unless they noticed the mustache.

"You and your brother were close at one time but had a falling out some years ago. The brand on your arms indicates you were both involved in a gang during your youth in California, and the schism between you two is probably related to your leaving the gang. The card your brother's corpse, the V.V. probably indicated Victor Valley, a region of the Los Angeles area. After overcoming your youthful indiscretions, you made quite a bit of money, and your brother was likely jealous.

"You did not fear your brother, but you should have. He carried a sawn-off shotgun, sawn-off so that he could conceal it. Whatever you discussed, his visit ended with him being shot in the face. You-"

"It was an accident," Douglas yelled. "He threatened me, I tried to take the gun from him, and it just went off."

Sherlock glared at the interruption before continuing. "You realized he looked exactly like you, had your DNA, and your identifying burn mark on the forearm, so you decided to fake your death to avoid being prosecuted. You put your jewelry on the body, but couldn't part with your wedding ring. Sentiment."

Sherlock paused to roll his eyes, as Douglas hugged his wife closer and looked down at the wedding ring he was still wearing.

"Your wife and your friend Baker decided to help you in this cover up, and planted the mud and the bloody footprint in your study. Silly ideas garnered from watching too many bad police procedurals. You got blood on your clothes when your brother was shot and Baker disposed of them in the creek. However, you've let yourself go a bit, and you wear a size larger than your brother. The clothes in the morgue from his body are smaller than those in the creek and those in your closet."

Sherlock beamed with pride after finishing his statement. "Brilliant," John grinned. Donovan shook her head and pushed her way past the doctor to take Mr. and Mrs. Douglas into custody.

"It was an accident!" Douglas yelled again.

"I'll let the CPS work all that out," muttered Lestrade. "Until then you should keep quiet." Lestrade nodded a thank you to Sherlock and John, who turned to walk out of the house.

"So, our first case as parents," John said. "I'd say it went pretty well."

"Mmmm," Sherlock agreed. "I could do with another one."

"I thought you were going to send a memo to criminals about their schedules" John chuckled. Sherlock scowled at him.

"How about dinner?" John asked. "We should get some food into you before another case does come along."

"If we must," Sherlock consented.

"Let's go to Angelo's," John suggested. "We'll treat Mrs. Hudson, to thank her for her help. And Angelo will be thrilled to meet Hamish."

The two men giggled, imagining Angelo's reaction. Sherlock hailed a cab.


	14. Chapter 14

A/N: This takes place a few weeks after the end of Chapter 13. Hamish is around 8 months old.

I'm not sure how much people will like this chapter. I just couldn't accept that Irene would give up her child because her life was too dangerous - Sherlock's life isn't child-friendly by any means. If you don't like this chapter, then just skip it, we'll get back to John and Sherlock in the next one.

* * *

Sherlock lay on the sofa, fiddling with his cell phone in his right hand. It was very late at night (or early in the morning), and the flat was dark except for the streetlights streaming through the large front windows. John had gone to bed hours ago, and the only thing Sherlock could hear were the faint sounds of the city at night.

He looked at his phone and frowned. He rarely texted her first, he usually waited until she initiated a conversation. But this was a unique situation. He unlocked the phone and typed a message.

_Cancer. – SH_

His phone buzzed in response only a moment later. He was either right about which time zone the Woman was in, or she was awake in the middle of the night as well.

_Very good, Mr. Holmes. – IA_

_ John says we should be on a first name basis. – SH_

_ The good doctor may be right. How did you find out, Sherlock? – IA_

_ You know how. Besides, if it were an assassin or a government after you, you would have simply told me. I believe I've saved your life 4 times now. – SH_

_ Three. That time at my house does not count; they were threatening John, not me. – IA_

_ Fine, then you didn't save my life in Mexico. – SH_

_ Are you ever going to get over Mexico? – IA_

_ No! – SH_

Sherlock pouted at his phone, but it soon buzzed again.

_How is he? – IA_

Sherlock looked down at his chest. Hamish was sound asleep, his little head lying on his father's chest, listening to the steady heartbeat. A tiny hand was curled around Sherlock's blue dressing gown. Sherlock held his phone up at arm's length and snapped a picture.

_ picture message sent - SH_

_ He's beautiful. – IA_

_ I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner. – IA_

_ It's fine. I found it difficult to introduce him to people as well. – SH_

_ You once told me a baby is a mother's most valuable possession. I thought that might apply to fathers as well. – IA_

_ It does. – SH_

Sherlock considered that for a moment. In the weeks since Irene had given him Hamish, the baby really had become the most important thing in his life. He tried to rationalize it as an evolutionary trait to protect one's offspring, but what he felt seemed so much stronger than simple biology. He had never expected to care for someone this much, had never wanted to, yet he could not help himself.

_ He crawls now. – SH_

_ Wonderful! – IA_

_ John insists on recording it. I will send you a video. – SH_

_ Thank you. – IA_

_ How do you feel? – SH_

_ Tired. – IA_

_Rest for now,_ Sherlock paused before finishing his text, _Irene. – SH_

Sherlock put his phone down on the back of the sofa, and stroked Hamish's back gently with his hand.


	15. Chapter 15

A/N: Dr. Soames and his mystery are from the Arthur Conan Doyle story "The Three Students." Characters belong to ACD and Moffat/Gatiss.

* * *

"Bored!"

John Watson ignored the yells of boredom coming from the lounge and continued cleaning up his breakfast dishes. It had been five days since their last case, and John was tired of listening to his flatmate's complaints. He did quickly turn around and look when he heard a loud thump from the far side of the room. With both Sherlock and an eight month old in the flat, loud thumps always made John nervous.

But the thump was apparently just the sound that a bored consulting detective makes when he decides to roll off of the sofa and onto the floor. Sherlock was now laying face down on the floor, in his pajamas and dressing gown. Hamish was very pleased with his father's new position, and attempted to crawl onto his back.

"Bored," muttered Sherlock into the floor.

John smiled and turned back to the kitchen. At least Sherlock was managing to "play" with Hamish despite his debilitating boredom. Hamish had recently began pulling himself up to a standing position and taking a few steps while holding onto furniture, so actual walking would certainly start soon. John was convinced Hamish's motivation was to grab things he shouldn't, like mobile phones or mugs of tea or laptops.

"John, do something, I'm bored," Sherlock commanded as John settled into his armchair.

"I have done something," John replied proudly. "A potential client left a message on my blog. He'll be here soon."

Sherlock grumbled into the floor. He obviously thought this potential client had a boring problem. Hamish grabbed his father's shoulders and pulled himself up to an unsteady standing position. John ignored Sherlock's grumbling and tried to encourage Hamish to take a step, but the baby wobbled and sat down.

Eventually there was a knock at the front door of 221b Baker Street, and Mrs. Hudson opened the door and directed the visitor upstairs. Sherlock had not thought their potential client was worthy of him getting dressed, or even getting off of the floor, but he had moved up to a sitting position against the sofa. Hamish continued crawling around the lounge.

John had considered asking Mrs. Hudson to watch the baby while they entertained potential clients. He wasn't exactly keeping Hamish a secret, but he had refrained from mentioning Hamish on his blog. In his write up of the case with Mr. Douglas and his evil twin, John had said he simply ducked into the pub to use the loo, which was sort of true. But John doubted that even the most obtuse person would miss the fact that a baby now lived at Baker Street, what with the toys scattered about and the baby bottles stacked on the kitchen counter. John knew eventually clients and Hamish would exist in the flat at the same time, so he may as well learn to deal with it now.

John greeted their visitor, Dr. Hilton Soames, and showed him to an armchair. He introduced Sherlock, who responded with a scowl from the floor. Hamish gave the stranger a sideways look and babbled before crawling over to his father.

"You…you have a baby?" Soames stammered in surprise.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "With your powers of observation, how could you possibly need my assistance?" he growled derisively.

"I just didn't expect you to have a child," Soames tried to explain. He was fidgeting, clearly anxious and uncomfortable.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, curious. "Millions of people have children, why not me?"

"Well, I thought you two…" Soames pointed between Sherlock and John, clearly indicating he thought there was some type of relationship between the two men.

This time John rolled his eyes. "We are not gay," he grumbled. This potential client was getting on his nerves, and if the man didn't have a good case for them, John wasn't going to wait for Sherlock before throwing the man out himself.

"How does being a gay couple disqualify us from having a child?" Sherlock demanded.

John cleared his throat and tried to direct the conversation into a more favorable direction. "You emailed us saying you had a problem?" he prompted.

"Yes," Soames nervously answered. "Let me explain. I am an administrator for an examination for the Fortescue Scholarship, which is granted to a postgraduate student in the Classical Language and Literature program at the University of Oxford. My subject is Greek, and tomorrow the students will have to translate half a chapter of Thucydides. I received the proof of this chapter this afternoon from the printers, and was reviewing it for its accuracy when I had to leave my office for an appointment. I was gone for a little over an hour."

Dr. Soames paused and looked from Sherlock to John. John tried to look understanding, holding his pen and notebook, ready to take notes. Sherlock just shrugged. Soames became more agitated, and continued excitably.

"When I returned from my appointment, I noticed that my door was unlocked. I made certain it was locked before I left, seeing as how the examination papers were lying on the desk. I asked the maid if perhaps she had left the room open, but she denied unlocking the door at all. I rushed into the room, and the examination papers were scattered about."

"The first page was on the floor," Sherlock said, his boredom still evident in his voice, "the second in the windowsill, and the third still on your desk."

"Exactly!" Dr. Soames exclaimed. "How could you possibly know?"

Sherlock waved his hand at the question. "Continue," he said.

"Well, obviously, if one of the scholarship candidates has seen this paper, he will have a great advantage over his competitors," Soames explained. "The text to be translated is supposed to be a secret until the examination begins."

"Did the candidates have access to your room?" asked John.

"Yes, I'm staying at the Oxford and Cambridge Club while I'm here in London," answered Soames. "Three of the candidates are staying at the club as well."

John wrote this information down. "Why not simply pick a new passage?" he asked.

"Oh, no, no, no, we can't do that," Soames replied, shocked by the suggestion. "The examination must be complex enough to prove that the student is a serious scholar, be broad enough to show a wide knowledge of the language, and be dissimilar from any recent exams given. It takes months to select a proper passage."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Call the police," he said.

"Mr. Holmes, that is impossible," answered Soames. "If I involve the police, or postpone the exam, it would invoke a scandal and discredit both me and the exam process. We must be discrete."

Hamish pulled himself up to standing again beside Sherlock. Sherlock gathered his son in his arms and stared at Soames. "I am a very busy man, Dr. Soames, and do not have the time for distractions."

Soames spluttered and protested, but Sherlock simply looked away from him and focused on Hamish's babbling. Sherlock started babbling back, but from Dr. Soames' reaction, John suspected Sherlock's babbles were actually Greek. John firmly ushered the professor out of the flat, knowing that it would be a waste of time to try and change Sherlock's mind.

"Well, it wasn't a triple homicide, but it would have alleviated your boredom," John scolded, returning to the lounge. Sherlock merely scowled.

"Fine, then don't want to hear 'bored' again for the rest of the day," John said. "And I'll even make it easy on you, I'm going out."

"Where?" Sherlock yelled, looking up suddenly.

"I promised Dimmock I'd help him move," John explained. "He's moving into his girlfriend's flat." John turned and pointed a finger at Sherlock. "And no one wants to know if she lied to her last boyfriend or is stealing office supplies from work or whatever else you've deduced about her!"

"How would I know any of that, I have never met her," Sherlock pouted. "No one has introduced me."

"Well, then maybe Dimmock is smarter than we give him credit for," John mumbled, kissing Hamish goodbye. Hamish proudly displayed his new trick, and waved at John.

"Don't blow up the flat," John told Sherlock as he headed out the door. Sherlock's pout deepened, and he fell over onto the floor again.

OOO

_ Come home now. – SH_

_ Seriously? I've moved two boxes. – JW_

_ What's wrong? Are you ok? – JW_

_ Is Hamish ok? – JW_

_ SHERLOCK! – JW_

_ I'm on my way, hold on. - JW_


	16. Chapter 16

A/N: The problem of Dr. Soames and the compromised exam is from "The Three Students," by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The case with Corporal Henry Wood is from ACD's "The Crooked Man." Its about a soldier who is severely injured during the war, and returns to London disabled, homeless, and alone. I imagine it would trigger John's PTSD.

* * *

John was ready to pay the cabbie before the car pulled to a stop in front of 221b Baker Street. It wasn't like Sherlock to stop responding to texts; something had to be wrong. Was Dr. Soames not really a Greek professor, but a dangerous murderer who had returned to the flat? Had Sherlock actually blown up something? John leapt out of the cab and fumbled with his keys at the front door. When he finally got the door open, he could hear Hamish wailing upstairs. John ran up the stairs two at a time, terrified of what he would find inside the flat.

Hamish was sitting in the floor, his tiny face red and tear stained. When he saw John, he held his arms up towards his uncle, screaming to be picked up and comforted. Sherlock had gotten dressed while John was out, but he was still sitting on the floor in front of the sofa. The detective had his knees pulled up to his chin, and had buried his face in them. He held his hands over his ears, and was rocking back and forth ever so slightly.

Relief flooded John, and he let out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding. He picked Hamish up off of the floor, and walked over to the front of the flat to close the curtains over the large windows that overlooked Baker Street.

"Its ok, I'm here," John said calmly, to both Hamish and Sherlock. "Relax, take some deep breaths."

Hamish nuzzled his head into John's neck, whimpering. Sherlock managed to get up and curl up on the sofa, facing the back.

"We're out of baby formula," Sherlock muttered into the sofa cushions.

"That's fine," John calmly answered, moving slowly through the darkened flat. "Everything's going to be fine." He looked down at Hamish. "How about we go play in my room for a little while?"

As he made his way upstairs to his bedroom, John's relief was replaced with anger. He should have known better than leave Sherlock and Hamish alone today. Sherlock's meltdowns didn't just happen spontaneously; they were the result of several stressful situations that wore down the detective, and John should have recognized the signs. The signs were often very subtle, but John had always tried to pay attention, to protect and help his friend. He was upset with himself for missing them today.

Hamish didn't seem any worse for what had happened. He had never been in John's room before, and he apparently found it fascinating. John sat in the floor and chuckled as the baby crawled around, exploring his new surroundings. John had baby-proofed his room when they had gone through the rest of the flat, although it was pretty sparse and very neat to begin with. John let Hamish crawl where he wanted, and they enjoyed a rousing game of peek-a-boo around the sides of John's dresser. John heard the front door of the building open, and Mrs. Hudson enter her flat. She must have been out.

Eventually Hamish started rubbing his eyes and yawning. John was relieved; he needed to go check on Sherlock. Thinking Hamish might fall off the bed if he left him up there, John built a nest on the floor out of blankets and pillows. Hamish rolled around for a few moments, but soon fell asleep. John slowly crept downstairs to the main level of the flat.

Sherlock was no longer on the sofa, and John's heart leapt to his throat. He may have missed the earlier signs, but he definitely knew this was a Danger Night and Sherlock should not be alone. The Belstaff coat and blue scarf were still hanging by the door, so John hurried back to Sherlock's bedroom.

John tapped lightly on the closed bedroom door. "Sherlock?" he whispered.

He received no answer, and eased the door open. John sighed in relief when he saw the detective sprawled across his bed. John slipped into the bedroom and stood off to the side of the bed.

"How's it going?" he asked, trying to sound natural. He was aware he failed miserably. Even in the dim light of the bedroom, he could see Sherlock glare at him.

"Where is he?" Sherlock mumbled.

"Upstairs," John shrugged. "Napping."

Sherlock suddenly sprang to his feet. "I'm going out," he announced, and started towards the door.

"Ok," John agreed, and turned to follow. "I'll go with you."

Sherlock stopped, and stared at the wall beside John. "You can't," he frowned. "You have to stay with him."

"I'll just put him in the stroller," John replied, still acting relaxed. He had an idea of the places and people Sherlock planned to visit, and they were definitely no place for a child. But he wasn't going to let Sherlock go there either. John forced himself to smile. "We'll go on a family outing."

Sherlock scowled slightly. "I couldn't get formula," he whispered. "I went to the shop, and they had rearranged the shelves, and there was some idiotic woman, and…" Sherlock cut himself off as he started to breathe faster.

"That's ok," John spoke slowly and calmly. "I'll get the formula this week. You got it last week."

"No, John!" Sherlock yelled, throwing up his hands. "You don't understand!" He growled in frustration.

John frowned. They rarely discussed a meltdown after the fact. Sherlock was embarrassed about his loss of control, and John never took anything Sherlock said or did during a meltdown personally.

"Look, Sherlock," John began. "He's fine. You've been caring for him for months-"

"But I can't always care for him," Sherlock interrupted.

"Which is why you have me, you dolt," John continued. He sighed. "Remember the case with Corporal Henry Wood? Afterwards I was so depressed I didn't leave the flat for over a week. You managed to convince me to go see Ella again and get some help."

"That was before Hamish," Sherlock said with a pout.

"Yes, well, Hamish hasn't cured me," John answered. "And he's not going to rewire your brain. You and I are here for each other, and we're both here for him. You managed to get home from the shop, call me, and to hold yourself together long enough for me to get here. Crying in the floor for a bit didn't hurt Hamish at all. I'm sure if he had started to climb the walls to get the harpoon off the hooks you would have gotten up and stopped him."

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, picturing the eight month old scaling the wall to where they had mounted the harpoon, high above the sofa. "That would have been interesting," he said.

John chuckled.

Sherlock bit his lip and looked at John. "What if we both shutdown at the same time?"

"Then we'll call Mrs. Hudson," John answered. "Or Lestrade, or Molly, or even Mycroft."

"Mmm," Sherlock replied, then turned his head to the side. "Who studies Greek?"

John burst out laughing. "You know Greek, you apparently studied it at one point."

"Yes, but not completely by choice." Sherlock spun on his heel towards the door. "We're going out," he announced.

John rushed to gather up the baby and all the supplies. Sherlock had already hailed a cab by the time John made it out the front door, but at least the detective had waited, even if he was bouncing around impatiently. Hamish fussed at being awoken from his nap, but soon fell asleep again in the car.

"So….where are we going?" John leaned over and asked.

"The Oxford and Cambridge Club," Sherlock answered, scrolling through images on his phone. "Don't worry, he'll be fine," Sherlock nodded at Hamish and continued before John could protest about bringing a baby to a crime scene. "This is a mental problem, not a physical one."

John decided not to argue. He couldn't think of a safer case than one involving cheating on an exam at an exclusive academic club.

"Soames has been texting me all afternoon, begging for assistance," Sherlock explained, still looking at his phone. "He's been sending me pictures of evidence, hoping I might find it interesting."

"And is it interesting?" John asked.

"It's a distraction," Sherlock murmured. "Here, a deep scratch on the leather writing desk." He held the phone out to John. John thought it looked like a rather normal scratch. "Also a broken pencil, and a curious little bit of…well, we'll see."

They continued the ride in silence, but as the cab turned onto Pall Mall, a thought occurred to John.

"Sherlock, are children allowed in the club?"

"I sincerely doubt it," he answered.

John groaned inwardly, but there was no way he was backing out of this now. Hopefully Hamish would remain asleep and no one would notice his presence.

"Now that you mention it," Sherlock continued. "You don't meet the dress code either. This will be good, you can tell Mycroft that his precious Diogenes Club isn't the only club in London where you disregard the rules. He was feeling insulted." Sherlock grinned mischievously, while John scowled and paid the cabbie.

Sherlock marched through the tall columns to the front door. Hamish squirmed in John's arms, and started to whine. John looked up at the tall stone building and sighed. So much for a quiet baby going unnoticed.

"Shhh, love," John whispered. "Go back to sleep."

Hamish did not go back to sleep, but started to whine and cry louder. John realized that he needed to rush or Sherlock would disappear, so he hurried after the detective and into the opulent lobby. The woman at the front desk was smiling politely, until she saw John and Hamish.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I need to ask you to leave," she started, but was interrupted by Soames rushing into the lobby.

"Mr. Holmes, thank you so much for coming," the professor gushed, running over to them. "You are the only man who could help me, with your great powers."

John rolled his eyes. If Dr. Soames had started laying on the compliments that morning, Sherlock probably would have taken the case then. The man loved flattery. Dr. Soames brushed away the woman from the front desk, and ignoring her protests ushered Sherlock, John, and Hamish to his rooms. He had a suite, with a small sitting room and separate bedroom. John found the room and its furnishings very luxurious. Hamish was still fussy, and John reached in his bag for a teething ring for the baby.

Sherlock darted about the room, checking for evidence as thoroughly as if a murder had taken place, and not just an exam compromised. He pulled out his magnifier to examine the scratch on the leather top of the writing desk, and the broken pencil. The third interesting tidbit that Soames had sent a picture of was a small, dark brown pyramid, with a cylindrical hole through the center. Sherlock squeezed it gently, and it gave a little, like rubber. He sniffed it and held it out in the palm of his hand.

"John, do you recognize this?" he asked. John looked, but had to admit he didn't. Sherlock scowled and asked Soames if he did; but the professor did not know what it was either.

"John, I should apologize to you, you're not the only one who sees but does not observe," Sherlock grumbled as he tossed the thing in the wastebasket.

"The windows are too high to see through, or for someone to climb through, so how did our suspect know the exam proofs were here, or that you were absent? Also, how did he get in?" Sherlock spun around and pointed to the desk. "He was in a hurry, he broke his pencil copying the proofs. After he finished the first page he tossed it aside; it landed by the window. He was on the second page when he was interrupted by your return, and dropped it on the floor. He hadn't gotten as far as the third page, which was why it was still on the desk. He had placed something with a sharp point on the desk, and when he heard you at the door he grabbed it, scratching the leather. The direction of the scratch leads towards the bedroom."

"Good lord!" Soames exclaimed. "You mean he was in here?"

Sherlock walked slowly into the bedroom. The bed was low, too low to hide under. There wasn't a lot of furniture to hide behind, only an armchair and two low nightstands. The bathroom door was open, and the room empty. Sherlock stopped in front of the closet.

"John," Sherlock murmured quietly, "Go back into the sitting area."

John gave the detective a confused look, before he realized the reason for the strange command. He clutched Hamish close to his chest and turned towards the corner of the sitting room as the detective flung open the closet door.


	17. Chapter 17

A/N: Again, this is adapted from ACD's "The Three Students," with Moffat and Gatiss' characters.

Thanks for all the reviews and favorites and follows! I'm really very flattered, I never thought this would get so much love.

* * *

There was nothing in the closet except for Dr. Soames' suits. Sherlock frowned in disappointment, but stooped to pick up another of the small, brown pyramids off of the closet floor.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John yelled. "Do you know how dangerous that was?"

"I didn't really expect him to still be here," Sherlock shrugged. "It would have been interesting if he was though."

"Interesting?" John screamed. "It would have been "interesting" if a desperate person lept out of the closet and attacked you with whatever sharp object scratched the desk?" Hamish responded to his uncle's anger by screaming and crying loudly.

"I doubt he could have inflicted much damage with a-" Sherlock started, but John cut him off.

"Sherlock, my hands are full," John said, holding up the screaming baby as proof. "I can't help you fight off someone. And what if he had decided to rush me and Hamish?"

Sherlock didn't respond, but his face fell and he looked sadly at John and Hamish. John growled in frustration, his heart thumping in his chest. He had forgotten that this was still a danger night. Less than an hour ago Sherlock had been doubting his ability as a parent and was ready to engage in old and dangerous habits; the detective was probably still vulnerable. John admitted that he had been the one to bring Hamish to a crime scene, and Sherlock had thought to send him and Hamish out of the room before opening the closet door. He was never bringing Hamish to a crime scene again, no matter how "safe" the crime.

"It's fine, all fine," John said, trying to quiet Hamish. Sherlock just looked at the floor, so John turned to Dr. Soames, who had been watching the argument silently. "Who else has access to your rooms?" he asked Soames.

"The Club staff, obviously," answered the professor nervously. "I had ordered extra towels, they were delivered while I was out. I saw the maid in the hall, tending to other rooms, and asked her if she saw anyone in here. She said the room had been empty when she delivered the towels, and said the papers were undisturbed. She said she would have straightened up if she had seen them on the floor. She was quite upset to think that someone had broken into my room, she had to sit a moment to collect herself."

"Sit where?" Sherlock exclaimed, snapping back to himself at the mention of a clue. Soames pointed to a chair, and the detective rushed over to it. "Call the maid," he ordered.

The maid soon appeared, and still looked flustered and nervous at the thought of a break-in at the exclusive club. She was a pretty young woman, in her early twenties. She denied seeing anyone in the hall, but admitted she usually cleaned rooms with an iPod and headphones, which was against policy. John tried to smile and put her at ease, but it didn't work. John didn't know if it was because she thought he was too old, because she was engaged (he did observe the ring), or because Hamish refused to stop crying.

Sherlock frowned and dismissed the maid. "Tell me about the students staying here," he told Soames. "And take me to their rooms, I need to see them, in their rooms."

Sherlock reached out to take Hamish from John, but John held onto the baby and insisted he was all right. Sherlock shrugged and motioned for John to follow him and Soames as they went to visit the students. John hesitated for a moment, but decided he really couldn't let Sherlock wander off alone.

"Yes, well, they should be here studying. There are three of them, but I hesitate to implicate any of them without evidence," Soames started. Sherlock rolled his eyes, so Soames continued with the detective's request. "The first is a very bright student, name of Gilchrist. He's quite athletic as well, and works very hard, and needs this scholarship in order to afford graduate school. The second is Daulat Ras, a quiet, inscrutable fellow. He is steady and methodical in his work, but Greek is his weak subject."

They had reached Gilchrist's room, and Dr. Soames knocked. A tall, handsome blonde man opened the door. Sherlock pushed in front of Soames.

"I'm so sorry to disturb you," Sherlock spoke in a rush, his voice sounding slightly panicked. John realized Sherlock was putting on an act. "I was staying in this room a few days ago, and I think I left my son's favorite toy here. It's a blue stuffed monkey. Do you mind if I take a quick look, please, we have to find it?"

Hamish assisted his father's act by screaming again. John scowled, but decided this was no worse than how Hamish had assisted him in Kensington. The young man seemed anxious to make the baby stop crying, and stepped aside while Sherlock quickly searched through the room. John looked in his bag for another toy or something to calm Hamish. Hamish was not interested in the plastic ring John found.

After a few minutes, Sherlock thanked Gilchrist and left his room. They continued to Ras' room. The young man who answered the door was short and dark, and scowled deeply at the interruption. He allowed Sherlock to search his room, and paced the floor the entire time.

"He looks nervous," John remarked.

"He should be, from his notes he's not going to do well on the exam tomorrow," Sherlock answered. "Who is the third student?" he asked Soames.

Soames sighed. "His name is Miles McLaren. He's really quite brilliant, when he chooses to work, but he's lazy and unfocused. He was nearly expelled his freshman year for a gambling scandal. I don't think he even started studying for this exam until last week."

Sherlock grinned, and John snorted. John suspected that description would have fit Sherlock in university.

They knocked on the door, but no one answered. After a second knock, a voice yelled through the door.

"Go the fuck away!"

Soames blushed, but Sherlock simply knocked a third time. "Please, I need to find my son's toy," he said.

"Buy him a new one!" McLaren yelled again. "I'm studying."

"Suspicious," muttered Soames, but Sherlock ignored him.

"John, what is wrong with him?" Sherlock turned to John and Hamish. "Can you not do anything?"

"He's teething," John explained. "It's hurting him and we left the paracetamol at home. And he's tired and wants to sleep but can't because of the pain."

"Why didn't you say so?" Sherlock asked. "Let's go then." He started striding purposefully towards the staircases leading to the lobby.

"But Mr. Holmes," Soames exclaimed, "what about the cheater? Is it McLaren?"

"Oh, no," Sherlock answered. "Gilchrist. I was only visiting the other two to confirm."

"How can that be?" yelled Soames.

"He's engaged to the maid," Sherlock explained, walking with John and Hamish towards the exit. "They could be siblings, but I did not see any genetic similarities between them. She didn't keep any clothes in his room, but there is only one bed, and a lady's razor is in the bath. When she delivered your towels, she saw the exam proofs on your desk and called him. He's on the track team, and rushed back from his workout. He put his cleats on your desk, that's what scratched the leather. The little brown pyramids were bits of mud that stuck to the cleats and dried. I've studied all types of shoes and footprints, and recognized it immediately. John, you should have as well, I'm sure you've had similar bits of mud on your rugby shoes. His muddy cleats are in his closet now. He left his gloves on the chair in your room though. When the maid sat down out of "distress" she was really concealing them. They are still in her pocket. My money is on McLaren winning the scholarship. Although I still don't know why he would want to study Greek."

"Oh my," Soames groaned, rubbing at his forehead.

Sherlock, John, and Hamish left the club, John smiling and nodding to the scowling woman behind the front desk. Sherlock had the cab take them straight to the nearest shop, where John rushed in for Hamish's medicine, and some baby formula.

"I need to see if Molly has any corpses available," Sherlock remarked as they headed home. "I am interested to see what kind of injuries one could produce using a track shoe as a weapon. If she has enough corpses, I could experiment with other shoes as well. Brilliant idea, John."

John chuckled. "Well, Soames may not be pleased with the result, but I'm sure he's very grateful you decided to take his case."

"Mmmm," Sherlock muttered. He looked down at Hamish, who had finally cried himself to sleep. "Years from now, when he is complaining that he does not want to go to school, we can tell him about this case as proof that I value academic integrity."


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: I'm sorry this took so long. I wanted to do a happy chapter, and I found out happy is hard. I'm better at hurt feelings and anger and sadness.

* * *

For months, Hamish's baby blue eyes would fade to gray, then green, then back to blue, like his fathers. But for the past few weeks they had settled on an ice blue, and stayed that color. He had inherited his mother's eyes.

He had, however, inherited his father's appetite.

Sherlock and John had just finished up a case, and had brought home dinner from Angelo's. Mrs. Hudson had declined the offer to join them, and with a kiss to Hamish's head went down to her own flat. Hamish nibbled on a few ravioli, but then smeared marinara sauce on his face and through his hair, making his dark curls stick up straight. He then started throwing raviolis around the kitchen.

"No!" John firmly scolded the baby and pushed the plate of ravioli out of reach before shoveling more pasta into his mouth. They had been running around London following leads for hours, and he hadn't eaten all day.

Hamish whined and reached for the plate. John scowled at him with a full mouth and shook his head, so Hamish turned to Sherlock and whined again. Sherlock ignored him, so Hamish put the fingertips of both his hands together, the sign for "more."

"Don't try to get me in trouble with you," Sherlock said through a mouthful of his own dinner. "Your uncle is already angry at me for not allowing him to take a break in the middle of chasing down a murderer."

Hamish looked quizzically at his father. He didn't understand what he had said, but he knew he wasn't going to get to throw any more ravioli. He amused himself by smearing his marinara covered hands over the table.

"I didn't want to take a break," John grumbled. "I wanted to grab a bag of crisps from the vending machine. You know, maybe if he saw you eating occasionally, he would realize food is for eating and not throwing."

Sherlock responded by shoving his mouth so full of pasta his cheeks bulged out and grinning at John. John narrowed his eyes and shook his head.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, until Hamish found a ravioli in his hair. He took a tiny bite of it, and threw it. It hit Sherlock in the cheek.

John couldn't stop himself from giggling. Sherlock scowled at both Hamish and John, wiping his face off with a napkin. "No!" he firmly said, "you do not throw food." Hamish pouted.

"You know," John started, stifling his giggles, "if that birth certificate Mycroft produced is accurate, his birthday is next week."

"It's accurate," Sherlock shrugged. "So?"

"So!" John exclaimed. "So it will be his _birthday_. His _first_ birthday. That's a big thing. And then in a month it will be Christmas."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He'll be one. He will have no idea that its his birthday."

John glared at his flatmate. "We are not going to cock up his first birthday by ignoring it because he'll be too young to ever remember it."

"John, if his first words are "cock up" I will conduct experiments on every carton of milk, bag of tea, and jar of jam in this flat."

"You're right, you're right, I'm sorry," John sighed. Hamish gave him a sideways look, with a gleam in his eye, and John almost expected the child to say "cock up." He had mastered baby sign language, and he still babbled, but he had yet to say intelligible words. Hamish didn't say anything, though, just went back to his marinara mess.

John put his fork down and looked sternly across the table. "Sherlock, we may be the strangest family that I've ever heard of, but we are a family none the less. Families celebrate together, and make happy memories."

"I can assure you, my memories of family celebrations are not happy," Sherlock muttered into his plate, stirring the remains of the pasta around with his fork.

"Then we should change that for him," John answered.

"Fine," Sherlock said, "what do you propose? A party with all his little friends? Stamford's wife doesn't consider our flat a safe place for her daughter to visit. Mrs. Turner's boys moved to a house on the other side of London once their adoption was complete. Perhaps we could invite the child from the playground that bit him and pushed him out of the sandbox?"

"Children," John sighed. "One child bit him, and another pushed him over. And then he started throwing sand at the one that bit him." John had been taking Hamish to the park regularly, and trying to get him to play with other children. It was not going so well.

"Self-defense," mumbled Sherlock.

"So we won't have a party," John continued. "It can just be us, a few presents, and a cake for him to make a mess with."

"You just scolded him for making a mess with his dinner, and now you want to give him a cake just to make a mess with?"

John sighed again and rubbed his hand over his face.

"Can it be a chocolate cake?" Sherlock asked in a small voice.

"Yes, it can be chocolate," John smiled. "Until he's old enough to pick the flavor himself."

"We don't have to invite lots of people?"

"No," John answered. "Mrs. Hudson will probably want to come up, of course. And Mycroft may want to drop by."

"We're having cake, of course Mycroft will want to come."

John couldn't help but giggle, and Sherlock joined him. "We should just make it a fun day for him," John said. "No cases, just spend the day playing with him."

"No cases?" Sherlock yelled.

"Its his birthday, not yours," John answered firmly. "And I won't go to work at the surgery."

"Alright," Sherlock grumbled as he stood and lifted Hamish from the high chair. Ravioli that had been in the baby's lap fell to the floor. "Saving that for later?" Sherlock asked. Hamish grinned, and Sherlock carried him off for a bath. John chuckled and started to clean up the kitchen.

OOO

John was on his hands and knees, checking under the stove for the last of the raviolis, when something small and pink rushed by him.

"Quick, John, he's escaping!" Sherlock yelled, and threw a towel at John. John just managed to catch it before it hit him in the face, but Hamish had already ran past him and into the lounge. The child was clean, but dripping wet and stark naked.

"Come here, you little rascal," John called, struggling to his feet. Hamish squealed with glee and continued running around. Soon after learning to walk, Hamish had moved on to running, and he loved to dart about on his tiny legs. He also found it very amusing to have someone chase him. John stumbled after him, laughing too hard to properly catch the toddler. Sherlock was laying on the floor in the hall, laughing too hard to get up and help at all. After a few laps around the sofa, John was able to switch directions and make a successful grab.

"Caught you!" he panted, holding the naked boy in his arms. "Haven't you learned from your dad that if you're going to run around the flat naked, you need to be wrapped in a sheet?" He wrapped Hamish up in the towel, the child wriggling and laughing.

OOO

Sherlock lay on his sofa in his thinking position, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he stared at the ceiling. He really didn't want to "cock up" Hamish's birthday. The reason he had kept the child rather than letting some dull family adopt him was to ensure he grew up happy. The problem was how to make a one year old happy.

Smearing cake everywhere would probably make Hamish happy, although it may cause problems the next time they ate and they _didn't_ allow him to make a mess. He already had plenty of toys – blocks, books, some dinosaurs, the plastic bumblebee, the boats in the bathtub, and that blasted blue monkey from Mycroft. It was stupid, monkeys weren't supposed to be blue. Sherlock had tried to sneak the monkey away several times, but Hamish always started wailing when he realized it was gone, and John always found it.

A dull family would probably buy him more ridiculously colored animals. Sherlock sniffed at the thought. He would think of something far better than that. But Hamish was still far too young to appreciate a microscope, or a magnifying glass, or even an ant farm. Honestly, as a one year old, Hamish would probably have a wonderful time playing with a large empty box. But John would likely consider a large empty box not a good present.

OOO

John knew exactly what he wanted to get Hamish for his birthday. John's favorite toys when he was very young were some die-cast cars and trucks. He had vague memories of pushing them around the living room floor, making little "vroom" noises. He'd been to a few toy stores, and had picked out the perfect set for Hamish. They were large enough for baby hands to hold, and durable enough to survive being thrown around, but they were still very detailed and accurate models. The set contained "Cars of London" and had a police car, a fire truck, an ambulance, a double decker bus, a delivery truck, a taxi cab, and even a black sedan that reminded John of Mycroft.

"Finding everything ok?" asked a sales girl with a big smile.

"Yup," John replied, holding up the car set. "Just getting my kid something for his birthday." He smiled. In only six months he had gone from calling Hamish "my friend's kid" to "my nephew" to "my kid." Before he'd met Sherlock, he'd been all alone. Sherlock had been the friend he had needed. And then Hamish had made them all a family.

OOO

"John!"

John groggily blinked open his eyes, trying to force himself to wake up. He realized that Sherlock was standing beside his bed, and he jumped awake. He pulled the covers up to his chin, even though he was wearing pajamas.

"For God's sake, Sherlock, I've told you not to come in here and wake me up like that!"

Sherlock just shrugged. "You didn't wake up when I called you from downstairs," he explained. "And you need to get up, we're taking Hamish to the zoo. This was your idea after all."

John blinked at the alarm clock on his nightstand. It said 6 am. "Sherlock, the zoo doesn't open until ten," he sighed.

"Exactly, we only have four hours," Sherlock answered. John just stared at him with a confused look. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Its winter, we have to visit the indoor exhibits at the zoo. I am not going to go into the Reptile House or any other building crowded with screaming children and yelling parents and let them jostle me around. This is Mycroft's birthday present to Hamish: the zoo is letting us in early so that we may enjoy it in peace. Now get up."

John had to admit it was a brilliant idea, so he dragged himself out of bed and downstairs for some tea and toast. Hamish was already up and running around the flat, dragging his blue monkey with him. They had never really tried to get Hamish to sleep at "normal" hours, especially considering Sherlock never did (and neither did John when they had a case). John was sure it would cause problems when the boy started school, but that was years away.

"Happy birthday!" John told him. Hamish just smiled at John.

The sleepy-eyed man who let them into the zoo did not seem to think it was a brilliant idea, but he didn't say anything as he unlocked the doors to the buildings. They visited the Aquarium, the Butterfly House, and the Reptile House. Hamish ran to and fro in each building, pointing at things, staring in wonder, and squealing with glee. At first John thought it was a bit creepy being at the zoo by themselves, but he soon appreciated the fact that that he didn't have to worry about losing Hamish in the crowd. He tried to get Hamish to hiss like the snakes in the Reptile House. Sherlock read aloud the technical information on the plaques.

OOO

Later that afternoon, John found his patience with both Sherlock and Hamish running thin. John needed to go to the shop to pick up the cake, and Sherlock had refused to watch the boy, claiming he had to finish setting up his present. So John pushed the stroller to the shop.

Hamish was squirming and whining while John was trying to scan the cake. He picked up the toddler to settle him down, but Hamish reached over and began pushing buttons on the pin machine.

"No, stop," he started to scold, but interrupted himself with a groan as his transaction was cancelled and he had to start over. He rescanned the cake and tried to set Hamish out of reach of the pin machine, but Hamish pressed on the checkout scale, and the machine thought there were more items to scan.

"Hamish!" he snapped. People in line were starting to grumble. Hamish looked straight at him, blinking his large blue eyes.

"Unca John," he said.

John was struck for a moment, then burst into a huge smile. "Yes!" he yelled. "Yes, oh what a brilliant boy you are." He pulled Hamish into a tight hug, no longer caring about the people waiting impatiently.

OOO

Hamish did make a mess of his cake, and thoroughly enjoyed himself while doing it. John laughed and took pictures. Sherlock quietly took one picture with his phone, and sent it as a message.

John gave Mycroft an extra large slice of cake, and Sherlock didn't make a comment. Hamish repeated his statement of "Unca John" and proved that he could say "Dad" as well. Mrs. Hudson gushed, and even Mycroft raised his eyebrows in approval.

John helped Hamish unwrap the set of cars. Hamish just pushed the large box around the floor, until John started crawling around with a car. Then Hamish turned the box on its side and started pushing cars into and out of it.

"Where's your present?" John asked Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at his watch. "Not yet," he answered.

OOO

"Now," Sherlock announced, checking his watch. It was nearly 9 pm.

John looked up. "Now?" he repeated. "Fine. Where is it?"

"On the roof," Sherlock said, putting on his coat.

"Sherlock, it's freezing outside."

"Yes, which is why we have coats," Sherlock made a face at John that said _obvious_. John sighed and got his coat, and bundled up Hamish.

"Why did we have to come up to the roof?" John grumbled. He held Hamish in his arms, and Hamish was trying to chew one of his mittens. Sherlock didn't answer, he only smiled smugly.

Seconds later, there was a small explosion, and the sky lit up with scarlet fireworks. Hamish forgot about his mitten and stared at the sky. Purple fireworks followed the red, and Hamish squealed and pointed.

"He enjoyed the fireworks when we brought him up here on Bonfire Night," Sherlock explained. "But we were too far away to really enjoy the show."

Green and yellow fireworks flashed across the sky. "You made him a fireworks show," John laughed. He could see other people stopping to watch. "What about the authorities? Did you get a permit?"

Sherlock scoffed. "They are being set off from the roof of an empty building a block away. Its locked up, by the time the firemen make it up there the show will be over; I only made it five minutes long. Everything is being run by a timer, and there is no evidence at all to link it back to us."

Hamish made the "more" sign with his hands, and in response more yellow and red exploded.

"Fantastic," John said. He looked over at Sherlock. "So how was this for a happy family memory?"

Sherlock smiled. "Better than any I have of my birthdays."

Bright blue fireworks crackled and flashed. Sherlock's phone buzzed, and he checked the text. He lifted Hamish from John's arms, and whispered into the little boy's ear, "Mummy says happy birthday."


	19. Chapter 19

A/N: We're jumping ahead in time again. Hamish is around eighteen months old or so.

* * *

Mycroft occasionally took John up on his invitation for tea, and the visits were not as bad as John had feared. Sherlock and Mycroft weren't exactly friendly with each other, but they did control the vitriol. Hamish was too young to notice any animosity, and he enjoyed it when his uncle Mycroft came to visit. The fact that Mycroft usually brought him a small cake probably helped.

John sat in the floor between the lounge and the kitchen, preventing Hamish from entering the kitchen by grabbing and tickling the toddler every time he tried. Sherlock had the kitchen table covered with some kind of experiment. He had assured John that the chemicals were non-toxic, but John wasn't taking any chances and would not let Hamish in the kitchen unsupervised. Sherlock sat in the floor as well, on the opposite side of the lounge, also tickling Hamish if he came within arm's reach. Mycroft preferred an armchair over the floor.

"You do remember that Mummy's birthday is a week from Saturday, don't you, dear brother?" Mycroft asked.

"Of course," Sherlock snapped. "John was going to help me pick out a card."

John snapped his head up, but he didn't say anything. This was the first he had heard of Mummy Holmes' birthday, or a card.

"This is her seventy-fifth birthday," Mycroft continued. "It's quite a milestone. A card will not be sufficient."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stared suspiciously at his brother. Mycroft returned the stare with a slightly smug smile.

Hamish ran by Mycroft's armchair and stopped. "Uncle Mycroft," he whined.

"Oh, yes, of course," Mycroft answered. He reached out an arm and tickled the little boy, who giggled gleefully before running off again.

"Mummy is having a birthday party," Mycroft said, turning back to his brother. "She would like you to attend. Consider it your gift to her."

Sherlock groaned loudly.

"Stop being so dramatic," Mycroft scolded. "She would also like to meet her grandchild. She wants the two of you to come to the house next weekend."

"She has grandchildren," Sherlock pouted. John's eyebrows shot up, and he almost missed grabbing Hamish as he ran by. He had never heard anything of Sherlock and Mycroft's family, but he never would have guessed that Hamish had cousins.

"Yes, well, she wishes to meet Hamish nonetheless."

Hamish walked up to Mycroft and handed him a toy car. Mycroft nodded in acknowledgement. Hamish handed another car to Sherlock, then walked over to his pile of toys and frowned. He looked from Sherlock to John to the toys, pouting.

"You know as well as I do that I cannot go to that house," Sherlock snapped.

"Mummy spoke to him," Mycroft answered. "As did I. He will be civil."

Sherlock snorted in disbelief.

Hamish finally selected a toy car and handed it to John. "Thank you," John smiled, taking the toy. Hamish stood up straight and looked around proudly. It reminded John of Sherlock, after the detective solved a case.

"Very good," Sherlock told the boy.

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed.

John looked quizzically at the brothers. Sharing toys wasn't something the Holmes' usually praised.

"He gave you the ambulance," Sherlock explained to John. John looked at the toy car, and yes, it was the ambulance. "Mycroft was easy, he got the sedan. I got the cab, as I always travel in them. You travel in cabs as well, but he only had one cab, so he had to decide which car to assign to you. He knows you are a doctor, and doctors sometimes work in ambulances, so he gave you the ambulance."

"Brilliant!" John exclaimed, hugging Hamish. The little boy laughed happily.

"Mummy wants you there," Mycroft said. Sherlock deepened his scowl.

"You always were her favorite," Mycroft continued, his face somewhere between a sneer and a smile.

Sherlock sighed loudly. "I will only go if John can come too."

"Of course the good doctor is welcome," Mycroft answered, leaning back, his negotiations successful. "He is family, after all."

Sherlock frowned from his seat on the floor. Mycroft stood to take his leave. He handed the toy car back to Hamish, and patted the little boy on the head.

"I will send a car for you next Friday," Mycroft said as he walked to the door. John climbed to his feet to see Mycroft out.

"Thanks for coming," John said. "And thanks for telling us about your mother's party. I'm looking forward to it."

"Mmmm," Mycroft replied, and glanced over at Sherlock, who was still sulking in the floor. "I'm afraid my brother's reluctance to attend may be justified. Please ensure that he doesn't change his mind. Good luck."

"Yeah, it looks like I'm going to need it," John answered.

"So what was that about?" John asked, turning to Sherlock. "Who are you concerned about, your father?"

"No, my father passed away years ago," Sherlock grumbled. "Its my brother."

"Wait a minute," John interrupted, "you have another brother, and your relationship with him is _worse_ than with Mycroft?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

John blinked his eyes in amazement and shook his head. "How many other siblings do you have?" he asked. Before Sherlock could answer, John noticed that Hamish, who had been pushing his car around the floor, was heading into the kitchen. John ran across the room to intercept him. When he turned around, Sherlock was putting on his coat and scarf.

"I'm going to St. Barts," the detective announced. "Molly promised me some feet." He turned with a flourish of his coat and disappeared down the stairs.

"Oh no you don't," growled John. He put down Hamish and grabbed his cell phone, pulling up Molly's name.

_Don't let Sherlock start any new experiments! – JW_

John then started firing off texts to Lestrade, Dimmock, and any other Yarder he could find in his phone.

_Don't give Sherlock any cases! – JW_

_What's going on? He's practically begging for a case. – GL_

_He's trying to avoid an appointment next Saturday. I'll explain later. Just don't give him anything. – JW_

John put down his phone and reached for his laptop. There weren't any new inquiries from people with a case, and he quickly disabled comments and the email link. It was going to be torturous to put up with Sherlock all week with no cases or experiments to distract him, but he wasn't going to let the detective claim he was too busy as an excuse to miss his mother's birthday party.

Sherlock returned a few hours later, and his dark scowl let John know that his texts had been successful. Hamish was down for a nap, and John was relaxed in his armchair, watching television. He greeted Sherlock with a large grin. Sherlock growled and grabbed the laptop, but when he saw there were no new emails he just slammed it shut. John chuckled.

"I guess round one goes to me," John smiled.

"Still seven days to go," Sherlock answered.

OOOOO

For the next couple of days, Sherlock searched everywhere for a case. John was surprised he didn't start handing out business cards on the street corner. But either Sherlock refused to lower his standards and take an uninteresting case, or London was very crime-free at the moment, because the detective didn't find anything.

Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, staring at the ceiling and thinking. "John," he said, "I'm not sure you can go away this weekend. Your girlfriend, whats-her-name, won't appreciate it."

"She won't mind," John answered, calmly sipping his tea. "We broke up."

"You can't have," Sherlock snapped. "You haven't been moping around here telling me about how I ruin your love life."

"That's because I broke up with her."

"Since when do you break up with anyone?"

"She said she hates dogs," John shrugged.

"I hate dogs!"

"You were quite pleased with the job Toby did sniffing around the docks," John answered.

"That's because Toby is exemplary beyond his species. I'd rather have him than the whole detective force in London."

John chuckled. "Yes, well, I wrote up in my blog about what a wonderful job Toby did during that last case, and how pleased you were with his performance. Anna – her name was Anna, by the way – and I were discussing it, and she said she hated dogs. I decided that I already had enough people in my life who hate dogs, so I broke up with her."

Sherlock flopped back onto the sofa in a huff. "Well then you should go meet someone new," he announced. "You hate being single."

"I can wait a week," John laughed. "I guess that means round two goes to me as well."

Sherlock pouted.

OOOOO

"Why do we have to go meet my family?" Sherlock asked. "We should go visit yours. I told you I considered Hamish _our_ son. You're raising him as much as I am."

"Well, my parents are dead and my sister is an alcoholic. Who do you want to meet?"

"You don't have cousins? Aunts, uncles, anything?"

"Not really," John shrugged. "My mum has a sister, but she moved pretty far north. I used to get letters from her when I was in Afghanistan, but we haven't spoken in years. My dad's brother died in a car accident."

"You are insufferably dull," Sherlock grumbled.

"If that was round three, you didn't even try very hard," John laughed. "Do you have cousins? Aunts? Uncles?"

"Far too many," Sherlock muttered.

OOOOO

John met Lestrade at a pub the next night for a few drinks and to watch the Chelsea-Tottenham Hotspur match. Sherlock had been throwing a tantrum to rival any Hamish could muster, and John just wanted to escape both of them.

"So what's going on with you and Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. "Why won't you let me give him a case?"

"Ah," John took a sip of his beer. "His mother's birthday is Saturday, and she wants him to attend her party. He's trying to find an excuse not to attend."

Lestrade let out a low whistle. "A gathering of Holmses? That's going to make for a dangerous party."

"Greg, you've known Sherlock for longer than I have. Did you know he had another brother?"

Lestrade nodded. "I only met him once, I think his name was Sherrinford. He makes Mycroft look sympathetic in comparison."

"What happened?" John asked.

"Sherlock was in the hospital," Lestrade answered, taking a big gulp of his beer. "He'd overdosed, nearly killed himself, and it may or may not have been accidental. I'd only known him for a few months, but I gathered that it wasn't the first time it had happened. His brothers showed up in the hospital. Sherrinford thought that if that was the life Sherlock wanted, he could have it. He wanted to disown his brother and cut all ties to him, basically let him kill himself with the drugs. Mycroft wanted to put Sherlock in rehab."

"Wow," John said. "I'm glad Mycroft won that argument."

"Yeah, well, have you ever seen Mycroft lose an argument?" Lestrade replied.

OOOOO

John had tried to take off work from the surgery, to keep Sherlock out of trouble, but two of the other doctors called in sick and Sarah had begged for him to come in for just a few hours. The surgery had been swamped that day, and he'd had to stay longer than he wanted, and had missed lunch.

When he finally got back to Baker Street, John found Sherlock in his pajamas and curled up on his sofa. His normally pale face was slightly flushed, and the dark curls stuck to his forehead in damp clumps.

"John," Sherlock whined, "I don't feel good."

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"I'm sick, obviously. You're a rubbish doctor."

"I am a damn good doctor. And you're not sick."

"You're a trauma surgeon, what would you know about the complexities of disease?" Sherlock snapped, sitting up to glare at John.

"I'm a GP, and I already scolded one boy today for pretending to be sick. He still has to go to school tomorrow, and you still have to go to your mother's." John looked around the flat. "Where is Hamish?" he yelled.

"I took him down to Mrs. Hudson's because I'm sick," Sherlock pouted, pulling his dressing gown around him.

"Go get him, you lying sod," John grumbled. He threw a pillow at Sherlock as he went to the kitchen to get some tea.

OOOOO

Friday came, and John halfway expected Sherlock to simply disappear. But the detective remained in the flat, and was even fully dressed. He refused, however, to pack a bag for the weekend, so John stormed into Sherlock's room and threw some things into a suitcase for him.

Mycroft arrived early that afternoon, a large sedan with him.

"I am not going," Sherlock announced, standing up and straightening his suit jacket. "I am an adult, and I will not be forced into going somewhere I do not want to go."

"Really, dear brother?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow. He held up a cell phone in his hand, wiggling it to taunt Sherlock. "If so, then you can inform Mummy."

John realized that the phone was Sherlock's, that Mycroft had somehow slipped it out of the detective's pocket. Sherlock realized it too, and lunged for the phone, but Mycroft wielded his umbrella like a sword and Sherlock pulled up short. Mycroft pushed a few buttons on the phone, and then a small voice answered.

"Hello? Sherlock?"

Sherlock glowered at his brother, but on hearing the voice on the phone, he turned pale. Mycroft lowered his umbrella and handed Sherlock the phone.

"Hello, Mummy," Sherlock said. "I just wanted to tell you that we're on our way. Yes, we'll be there in time for dinner."

He hung up the phone and stormed down the stairs to the waiting car. John picked up Hamish and followed.


	20. Chapter 20

A/N: It's been forever since I've posted an update. I'm so sorry, life got busy for a while. Thank you for all of the reviews, favorites, and follows, they kept reminding me to get back to this. This mystery is based off of Arthur Conan Doyle's "Silver Blaze." The characters are his and Moffat/Gattis'.

* * *

Mycroft had sent a car with a carseat, which John strapped Hamish into before climbing in to the seat across from him. Sherlock glared out the window. Before John could shut the door, Mycroft slid in next to him.

"You are not riding with us all the way there!" yelled Sherlock.

"Well, I do have to go too," Mycroft answered calmly, not responding to Sherlock's tantrum. "This seemed the most efficient manner."

"You just want to make sure I don't leap out at a stoplight," grumbled Sherlock. Mycroft simply frowned at his brother.

John handed Hamish his favorite blue monkey. The little boy squealed happily and grabbed it by the tail.

"Oh, do we have to bring that blasted thing?" Sherlock groaned.

"Yes!" John snapped. "You think this ride is going to be bad for you, but remember that I am the one trapped in a car with three Holmses. At at least one of you three needs to not cry the entire trip, and if a blue monkey accomplishes that, fine. Now if the two of you don't shut up, I am going up front to ride with the driver."

John flopped back in his seat after his tirade. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, but said nothing. Sherlock just huffed and went back to glaring out the window.

"Thank God," muttered John at the silence, as the car drove down Baker Street.

Sherlock pulled his phone out of his pocket, as well as a small black case, which he tossed on the seat beside him. He unlocked the phone and begin to scroll through a screen. John narrowed his eyes and looked at the black case.

"Sherlock, are those my binoculars?"

Sherlock smiled and made a motion of closing a zipper across his lips. John shook his head and sighed, and the detective went back to his phone.

For fifteen minutes the only one who spoke was Hamish, as he pointed out objects that they drove by. The eighteen-month old was very pleased with his ability to identify things. "Dog," said Hamish, twisting to see the animal. "Bus. Cab. Lawry."

"Lorry," Sherlock enunciated. "Ooorrr." Hamish dutifully tried to pronounce the word correctly.

Seeing that Sherlock and Hamish were both safely occupied, John ventured to speak to Mycroft. "So, what family members will I be meeting this weekend?"

"No one you want to know," growled Sherlock, under his breath. Both John and Mycroft glared at him.

"You needn't concern yourself with all the extended family members at the party," Mycroft answered. "At home there will be our mother, of course, Violet Holmes, and our elder brother Sherrinford."

Sherlock made a face at the mention of the name, but did not say anything, so Mycroft continued.

"We may or may not see Sherrinford's wife, Kathleen. She rarely feels well enough to see visitors."

"Oh, what is she suffering from?" John asked.

"She suffers from being married to Sherrinford," Sherlock muttered. John and Mycroft ignored him.

"Depression, I'm afraid," Mycroft replied. "I tell you only because it is probably best that you do not bring it up."

John nodded, although it sounded a bit odd to him. Sherlock snorted, but turned to stare out of the window rather than comment.

"Sherrinford and Kathleen have two children," Mycroft continued. "Errol is eight and Enola is six."

The conversation lapsed, and again they rode in silence, out of the city and into the rolling countryside of Surrey.

"Horse," announced Hamish, pointing out the window. "Lorry."

"Good," Sherlock murmured.

They passed through a small town, and into quiet streets with large estates separated by long driveways, grassy pastures, and tall trees. The car turned into one of the driveways, and pulled to a stop in front of an old, stone house. John's eyebrows lept up his forehead when he saw it. It wasn't quite Downton Abbey, but it was definitely a wealthy manor house. John had been expecting something of the sort, based on Sherlock's public school accent and Hamish's trust fund, but it was still impressive to see.

Mycroft climbed from the car, and John followed, but Sherlock continued to lean back in his seat and stare at the sky. John nudged his arm, and Sherlock flinched.

"Excuse me," he muttered, "I was day dreaming." He turned to unbuckle Hamish, but John noticed a gleam in the detective's eye.

The four of them ascended the stone steps to the house's entrance, Sherlock carrying Hamish. The door opened, and a man with the same gingery hair and pointy nose as Mycroft stepped out to meet them. John noticed he also had the same sour look as Mycroft.

"Mycroft," the man said, nodding his head and offering his right hand.

"Sherrinford," Mycroft replied, shaking hands.

"You must be Dr. Watson," the man said politlely, turning to John. "Sherrinford Holmes. Welcome to our home."

"I'm pleased to be here," John answered, shaking hands as well.

The pleasantries completed, Sherrinford turned towards his youngest brother and scowled. Sherlock glared silently in return.

"Sherlock," Sherrinford practically spat out the name. "And this must be your son."

"Obviously," Sherlock answered. "Were you expecting a pre-adolescent, conceived during some drug-induced act of depravity? Or perhaps the result of a trick I had turned to support my habit?"

"Can you blame me if I was?" shouted Sherrinford.

John stared in surprise at the two men. Hamish whined and tucked his head into Sherlock's neck. Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "We're not even inside the house yet," he whispered.

The argument was interrupted by a smooth female voice.

"Any child of Sherlock's is an asset to the Holmes name," said a tall woman, stepping out of the door behind Sherrinford. She was graceful, with white hair elegantly pulled back to the nape of her neck, enhancing her high cheekbones and brilliant blue-gray eyes. John immediately decided she was beautiful, and did not look at all like a seventy-five year old woman.

She smiled and walked up to Sherlock. "Thank you for coming dear," she said softly, placing a kiss on his forehead. Sherlock's only response was to mutter, "Mummy."

Mrs. Holmes looked at little Hamish in Sherlock's arms and smiled. "He has our curls," she said in approval. Hamish, still unsure about the new people he was meeting, returned her smile with a sideways stare and a nervous whine.

Mrs. Holmes turned to kiss Mycroft on the cheek, and then held out her hand in greeting to John. "Doctor Watson, I'm very pleased to finally meet you. I am a big fan of your blog, and dear Mycroft has told me much about you."

"Call me John, please," John grinned, taking her hand.

"Now I am sorry, I must rush off," Mrs. Holmes said. "I have several details to arrange before tomorrow night. I know its very vulgar to plan one's own birthday party, but its easier to just do it myself than to tell other people what I want. I will see you all at dinner." She turned and hurried off.

"Mycroft, you are in your usual room," Sherrinford said stiffly. "Sherlock, you and Dr. Watson are in the guest wing on the second floor. The butler can show you, if you don't remember." He turned on his heel and disappeared into the house.

John looked around and realized that their bags had already been taken inside, and that the car had driven off. A servant in a suit stood inside the doorway, but Sherlock brushed him aside. "I know where it is," he grumbled. Sherlock strode through the house, John following.

The house was just as grand inside as it was outside. The ceilings were high, and the rooms and hallways spacious, with large windows draped with heavy fabric curtains. They went up a marble staircase to a second floor hallway covered in thick carpeting. The walls were made of rich wood paneling and hung with paintings. Both John and Hamish turned their heads about to look at everything, but Sherlock didn't spare a glance as he walked to their rooms.

Sherlock led them through a heavy wooden door, into a small sitting room. There was a sofa, two armchairs, and a small writing desk. Two bedrooms opened off of the sitting room, as well as a bathroom that John felt could belong in a four-star hotel. A crib had been added to one of the bedrooms.

"Wow," John said, looking around. "This is nice, really nice."

"Dull," muttered Sherlock. He turned to Hamish. "Does this room look dull to you?"

"Dull!" Hamish announced firmly.

Sherlock turned and left the suite, carrying Hamish. John hurried after him. After turning down two more hallways, they entered into a large, sunny room. It had a couple of regular size sofas, but the tables and chairs were child-size, and the shelves were all low. They were covered in toys and books. Sherlock placed Hamish on the floor before flopping down on one of the sofas. Hamish ran to a table covered in Lego blocks.

"Impressive nursery," John said, sitting on the floor next to Hamish and helping him with the blocks. "Did you used to play here?"

"Children have to be kept somewhere," mumbled Sherlock.

"Then this is certainly the place for you," muttered John. "Can you think of something to do this weekend besides whine?"

"Have you heard of the murder of John Straker and the disappearance of Silver Blaze?"

John snapped his head up. "Of course," he answered. "That's the missing race horse. Its been all over the news this week."

"The news is a plethora of surmise, conjecture, and hypothesis," scoffed Sherlock. "We need to detach the facts from the embellishments and theories of the reporters."

"We do?" asked John. "I thought they had already made an arrest."

"The evidence against their suspect is purely circumstantial," Sherlock argued. "A decent solicitor will get him released in no time. Although I must admit his incarceration is my fault in the first place. When I first heard of the crime on Tuesday I assumed the case was a two or a three, and that the local police would solve it in no time. A serious blunder on my part. All week I have been expecting to hear of the discovery of Silver Blaze, but nothing has been done except to arrest the wrong man."

"So this is why you didn't put up more of a fight to come here," John chuckled. "Do you have a theory then?"

"I have finally gotten a grip on the essential facts of the case," Sherlock replied, pulling out his phone. "Inspector Gregory of the local police sent me the details. It took me a while to convince him, he seems to remember me from when I was a kid."

John burst out laughing, and Sherlock frowned.


	21. Chapter 21

Sherlock scowled at John's laughter, but ignored it.

"The facts of the case are these," he started, laying on a sofa and staring at the ceiling. "Silver Blaze has long been a prime favorite with the racing public. He is the popular favorite for the Wessex Cup, the betting odds being four to one –"

"Three to one," John interrupted with a slight clearing of his throat. "They were offering three to one. I placed a, uh, small bet." John blushed and turned back to the blocks with Hamish.

"It is obvious therefore that there are several people who would benefit if Silver Blaze did _not_ win the race next week," Sherlock continued as if he had not been interrupted. "His owner, Colonel Ross, is of course well aware of this fact. Silver Blaze was kept in his stable, with three of the stable hands keeping watch day and night. Last Monday, his trainer, John Straker, exercised the horse as usual and locked up. Two of the stable hands went out for dinner, bringing back take-away for the one remaining on watch, a young man named Ned Hunter.

"As they neared the stable, a man appeared out of the darkness. They noted he was dressed in a gray suit and carrying a heavy stick with a knob on it. The man asked for directions, which the stable hands provided, and they went their separate ways. The stable hands delivered the take-away to their comrade, when the gentleman appeared again at the open window. He asked them for a straight tip on the horses. The stable hands obviously did not appreciate this, and the three of them rushed out the door to chase him off. However when they came round the building, he was gone, and they could find no trace of him."

"One moment," John asked. "Did they lock the door behind them?"

"Excellent, John, excellent!" Sherlock murmured. "I texted Inspector Gregory that very question. The door locks automatically when closed, all the stable hands have keys. The three returned to the stable, and called Straker to tell him what happened. Mrs. Straker said that her husband was very upset by the news, and a little after one in the morning he finally decided to go to the stables to join the watch. That was the last anyone saw of him.

"At seven the next morning Straker had not returned, so his wife called the stables. The ringing phone woke the two stable hands who had gone out for dinner. They had retired the night before expecting to be awoken in their turn to take watch, but they found Hunter slumped over the table by his meal. Silver Blaze's stable was also empty.

"They called the police and rushed out to search for the horse. They hoped to find him in Straker's care, but of course that was not the case. In a small bowl-shaped valley they discovered Straker's body. His skull had been shattered by a blow from a heavy weapon, and there was a long, clean cut on his thigh. In his right hand he grasped a small, sharp knife, covered in blood up to the handle. In his left hand he held a red and black silk cravat. The stable hands recognized it as the one worn by the man from the night before. There were abundant hoofprints in the mud of the valley, but no other sign of Silver Blaze has been found."

John was about to ask if Hunter had regained consciousness, when the door to the nursery opened, revealing Sherrinford Holmes.

"Mycroft said you would probably be here," he said stiffly. "I wanted to apologize for my behavior in meeting you this afternoon."

"Seemed like a typical Holmes brothers greeting to me," John shrugged. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and glared at his brother.

"There is a bruise forming on the distal side of your right hand," the detective observed.

"Sherlock," Sherrinford started, but Sherlock continued. Sherrinford sighed and dropped into an armchair. He glared at Sherlock as the detective rapidly rattled off his observations.

"You hit your hand on a table in a fit of anger," Sherlock deduced. "I'm fairly certain you are angry at my presence, but you may try to deny it, so I will prove it. You had a haircut two days ago; you wanted to look good for the party tonight. You always did suck up to Mummy, so you aren't angry at her. Your suit is expensive, very expensive, but you are not concerned about wearing it at home while slouched in an armchair; therefore you are not having trouble at work. Your wedding ring has finger smudges on it, you keep touching it, so you are concerned about your marriage. But you do not take the ring off; you turn it around your finger. You aren't concerned about your marriage, but about your wife. But it's a quiet worry, not one to manifest itself in hitting a table. Your children aren't old enough to get into serious trouble, although I only know that because I am your brother, nothing about you says that you have children at all."

"Sherlock, I am not Mycroft, I will not play this game with you," Sherrinford snapped.

"Am I wrong?" Sherlock asked, sticking his chin out.

Sherrinford glared at his younger brother, but his answer was cut off.

"Papa?" asked a small voice from the doorway. "What are you doing in the nursery?"

Two young children stood in the doorway, still in their school uniforms. The boy, about eight, was tall and thin, and had the same gingery hair as his father. His little sister had a long blonde braid, and large blue eyes staring in surprise at her father.

Sherrinford cleared his throat. "I wanted to introduce you to your Uncle Sherlock, my youngest brother," he answered. "This is his…friend…Dr. Watson, and this is your cousin Hamish. These are my children, Errol and Enola."

"Pleased to meet you," Errol answered nervously. Enola just waved a little hand.

"Hello there," John smiled warmly. Sherlock said nothing, and continued glaring at Sherrinford. Hamish was more interested in the blocks.

"Oh no," Errol exclaimed, and rushed over to the table with the blocks. "I had them all set up. I was building a medieval village." He tried to take a block from Hamish, but the toddler squealed angrily when he did.

"Share, Errol," Sherrinford absently murmured.

Errol frowned, but handed the blocks back to Hamish.

"I'm sorry," John apologized to the boy. "We didn't know you had everything set up. I'll help you put it back together."

John tried to show Hamish how to rebuild the little houses that Errol had made, but Hamish wasn't used to playing with other children, especially ones so much older than himself. He held tightly to a couple blocks for a few moments, dancing around nervously and frowning. Finally he threw the blocks down and scampered off to another part of the nursery. He pulled some dinosaurs from a shelf and started playing with them, while John and Errol continued with the blocks. Errol kept giving John, Sherrinford, and Sherlock nervous looks.

John noticed that while Sherrinford wouldn't trade deductions with his brother, he would engage in a silent glaring contest. The two Holmes men stared at each other, eyes flashing with anger, but neither said a word.

Hamish decided the dinosaurs had finished their fight, and he dropped them on the floor. He ran across the room to a bookshelf and started pulling down books. He found one with a picture on the cover he liked, and ran over to the sofa where Sherlock lay.

"Read, Dad," he said, holding the book up, completely ignoring Sherrinford and the staring contest.

"Say please," John gently suggested.

"Please," Hamish repeated.

Sherlock broke off staring at his brother and shrugged. He took the book from Hamish, and helped the toddler up on to the sofa with a boost. Hamish nestled into his spot under Sherlock's arm.

"All children, except one, grow up," began Sherlock in his deep baritone voice.

Enola looked up from her coloring book and stared at Sherlock and Hamish in surprise. Errol also looked up from his blocks. Sherrinford scowled at Sherlock, and rose to his feet.

"Dinner will be at 6:30," Sherrinford announced uncomfortably and left the nursery.

John decided that not only was it unusual for Sherrinford to be in the nursery with his children, much less play with them, he had probably never cuddled them up to read them a story.

"I bet dinner is going to be interesting," he whispered to Errol. Errol just made a face.


	22. Chapter 22

Eventually Errol looked up from his blocks and mumbled that they should go to dinner. Enola pouted, but put down her crayons and scurried off after her brother. Sherlock pouted as well, but stayed put on the sofa.

"Come on," John told the detective, lifting up Hamish.

"I have a case, I'm not eating," whined Sherlock.

"I'm sure you've sulked your way through hundreds of meals in this house," John answered. "What's one more?"

John left the nursery and headed for the dining room with Hamish. Sherlock sighed deeply and followed.

John did find it refreshing that for once he didn't have to worry about Sherlock's manners. He was sure the Holmes family was well acquainted with Sherlock's moodiness and tantrums. He was however, a bit nervous about Hamish's table manners. The toddler had learned to not throw his food, but he didn't always eat it either. Most of the time he just played with it. When he did eat, he used his hands, and he used silverware for simply banging on the table. The table at Baker Street was covered in scratches from Hamish's fork.

Hamish had also recently decided that he no longer wanted to sit in his high chair, and would only stay at the table if he could stand in a regular chair. John winced when he walked into the dining room and saw a high chair placed on one side of the long table. The dining chairs all had cream-colored upholstered seats, and John really didn't want Hamish to leave little footprints on them.

Luckily, Hamish was distracted by the glittering chandelier and by all the other people in the room, and he didn't protest as John slid him into the high chair. Sherlock quickly swiped the child-sized silverware away before dropping into his own seat next to his son. John took the seat on the other side of Hamish.

Sherrinford and Mycroft sat across from John and Sherlock, and they were both scowling. Violet Holmes took the head of the table, and smiled widely at her family.

"John, I'm so eager to get a chance to talk to you," Mrs. Holmes said. "I do so love reading about the exploits of my youngest on your blog, but are they really as exciting as you tell them?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John blushed slightly. He and Mrs. Holmes began to pleasantly discuss some cases, ignoring the glowering men at the table.

Dinner started with potted shrimp and pickled cucumber. John found it quite good, and was very pleased when Hamish carefully picked up the shrimps and ate them. Sherlock didn't move to eat any of it. Enola looked at her plate and made a face.

"Enola, eat your food," Sherrinford said.

"But I hate shrimps," Enola whined. "And Uncle Sherlock doesn't have to eat his."

Sherrinford slammed is spoon down on the table and glared at his daughter. "Do not ever emulate anything that man does," he hissed. Mycroft and Mrs. Holmes both glared at him, and Enola sunk into her seat and took a bite.

"We're having raspberry trifle for dessert, dear, your favorite," Mrs. Holmes consoled the little girl.

Mrs. Holmes tried to smooth over the situation by asking her grandchildren about their day at school. The main course was served, roast sirloin with Yorkshire puddings. Sherlock touched his food this time, but only to cut up tiny bits to give to Hamish. Hamish seemed to find it quite delicious, as did John.

"Oh, I spoke with Julia, the children's nanny," Mrs. Holmes mentioned. "She will be able to watch little Hamish during the party tomorrow. She's a wonderful nanny, the children love her."

Sherlock pouted and looked down at Enola. "Do you like her?" he asked.

Enola stared at him wide-eyed, and then looked towards her father. "You may answer him," he grumbled.

"I like her," Enola answered in a small squeak. "She reads us stories, too."

Sherlock nodded.

The Holmes brothers didn't say anything more, but simply glared at each other. John had seen Mycroft and Sherlock in their staring contests, and he could just imagine what they were saying to each other with their angry looks.

_Sherrinford: Sherlock, stop being a child and eat your dinner._

_ Sherlock: No. I don't want to._

_ Mycroft: Both of you behave. We are here for Mummy._

The tension at the table increased, and John began to be uncomfortable with the silence.

"So, have you heard of the disappearance of Silver Blaze?" he asked. "The stable is near here, right?"

Mycroft was the first to break off the glaring. "Yes, Colonel Ross' stables are about a mile from here, over land," he answered. "There are in fact several stables in the area."

"Indeed, I was discussing the issue with Colonel Ross yesterday," Sherrinford said. "He is considering removing Silver Blaze from the entries for the Cup, and I recommended that he do so."

"That would be a mistake," muttered Sherlock.

"The great detective is a bit late," snorted Sherrinford. "The police have arrested the perpetrator. The horse has probably either been claimed by a farmer or fallen into a crevasse after wandering the countryside."

"That's your theory?" Sherlock exclaimed. "A farmer would make more profit by returning Silver Blaze for a reward rather than hitching him to a plow. And what horse is dumb enough to fall in a crevasse?"

"So not only are you an expert on tobacco ash, dirt, and footprints, but horses as well?" Sherrinford rolled his eyes. John noticed he had the same eye-roll as Sherlock.

"I am an expert in my profession, yes," Sherlock pouted.

"Profession? Do you get a regular income from it? Police inspectors have a profession, Sherlock, you have a hobby. Now that you are attempting to raise a child, I think its high time you found a profession."

Sherlock's glare darkened and he opened his mouth to respond to his brother, but he was cut off by Mrs. Holmes' spoon hitting the table.

"Boys!" she said firmly. "Enough. You will remain civil at my table."

Sherlock and Sherrinford sat back in their chairs and glared silently at each other. Everyone else at the table stared at them. Hamish held out his hand towards Sherlock and said, "Dad."

"Where is his mother, Sherlock?" Sherrinford asked, his voice low.

"In a hospital in America, dying of cancer," answered Sherlock. "Where is their mother?" He nodded to Errol and Enola.

Sherrinford suddenly looked very uncomfortable. Errol sighed and looked at his plate, and Enola's lower lip started to tremble.

"I miss mummy," she said.

"Your mother is upstairs in her room," Sherrinford told her. "There is no reason to miss her."

"But I never get to see her," the little girl sniffed and wiped her nose.

"Darling, I spoke to your mummy this morning," Mrs. Holmes said. "She is resting so that she will be able to make it to the party tomorrow night, and you can spend the party with her. She misses you, too."

Enola smiled at her grandmother. Mrs. Holmes gave stern looks again to Sherlock and Sherrinford, and neither man said another word during dinner. Mycroft sighed and gave both of his brothers a look that John interpreted as saying _I told you two to behave._

Mycroft, Mrs. Holmes, and John discussed current events for the remainder of dinner. The raspberry trifle was divine; Enola gobbled hers up. Sherlock simply stared at his portion, and drummed his fingers on his knees in impatience.

Mrs. Holmes calmly finished her dessert, and placed her fork on the top of her plate. Her sons immediately responded to this signal, both Sherlock and Sherrinford springing to their feet and excusing themselves, Sherlock taking Hamish from the high chair. John stared after them, and rose to excuse himself as well.

"Welcome to the family," Mrs. Holmes told him with a wink.

John started at her, but turned to hurry after Sherlock and Hamish. Sherlock quickly walked through the house to a back door and slammed his way through it.

"Where are we going?" John asked.

"Out of that house," Sherlock grumbled.

"Um, ok," John answered. "Shouldn't we get our bags?"

"Don't be ridiculous, we're not walking to London," Sherlock scoffed. "We're going to meet Inspector Gregory at the crime scene."

"Uncle Greg?" Hamish asked hopefully.

"No, Inspector Gregory," Sherlock corrected him. "If you would learn to say 'Lestrade' we wouldn't have this problem."

John chuckled and took the toddler from Sherlock. "You were the best behaved little boy ever tonight," he told him, hugging him and kissing his cheek. "I am so proud of you."

Hamish giggled happily.

"So you think you can find the horse?" John asked.

"Probably," replied Sherlock. "As well as the not so minor point of finding who killed John Straker."

"Um, Sherlock, you know he can understand us now," John said, nodding to Hamish. "Maybe we should be more careful about what we say."

"Oh, really?" Sherlock exclaimed. "What was that word he was saying last week? The one that made Mrs. Hudson blush? Where did he hear that word?"

John scowled and blushed deeply.

"I certainly doubt Mrs. Hudson taught it to him," Sherlock continued. "If he heard it on the telly, I'd ask what programs you're allowing him to watch."

"Fine," John snapped. "But don't you think some of our cases are a bit gruesome for him?"

"The world is a gruesome place, children need to learn to deal with it," Sherlock answered. "Haven't you paid attention to the fairy tales we read to him? Those are gruesome."

"But those are make believe," John argued. "I don't want to scare him with real-life criminals."

"Then we'll have to make sure he knows there are real-life detectives to stop real-life criminals," Sherlock stated.

"So now you're a super hero?" John snorted.

Sherlock smiled broadly.

"You had better not call me your sidekick," John warned.

Sherlock only grinned at him.

"I am not your sidekick," John muttered. "And you really are a that-word-he-said-last-week."

Sherlock burst out laughing.

They approached the crime scene, which was just a low spot in the rolling countryside. A muddy area that had been heavily trampled was surrounded by police tape, and a tall man with pale blue eyes and blonde hair and beard that were turning gray stood in front of it. He let out a snort when he saw Hamish.

"And I thought you were too young when you started showing up at my crime scenes," he said to Sherlock.

"You refused to give me data when I visited you at your office," Sherlock shrugged.

"Well, I've learned better since then," Inspector Gregory replied dryly, and handed a file folder to Sherlock. "I'm pretty sure Simpson is our man, although I admit the evidence is purely circumstantial. I'd like something more concrete one way or the other."

Sherlock quickly flipped through the file. He held out a picture to John. "John, what kind of knife is this? It looks medical."

"Cataract knife," John answered. "Its an awfully odd choice of weapon, to either attack someone or defend yourself with. Does Simpson have any cuts on him?"

"No," answered Gregory. "Which is a point I'm sure his defense will bring up. Straker put up a fight before he was killed."

"He could have cut himself in the thigh," John said. "What was the cause of death?"

"Blunt force trauma to the head," Gregory told him. "Simpson was carrying a heavy walking stick."

"And the horse was carrying powerful legs," Sherlock murmured. "Has the coroner confirmed the blow came from a stick and not a kick?"

"No, the coroner is still working on casts of the imprint," Gregory sighed. "But Simpson had placed a lot of money on Desborough, the horse favored second to Silver Blaze. Also, Straker had Simpson's cravat in his hand, and Simpson was in the area the night of the murder."

Sherlock paused in the file at one of the interview transcripts. "Straker went out for take-away with the stable hands," he read. "They had curry."

"I think we had curry take-away that night, too," John shrugged. Sherlock tossed the file back to Inspector Gregory, and began to crawl around on the ground, looking at the impressions in the mud. Hamish wriggled and whined in John's arms, wanting to crawl around in the mud as well, but John held him tight.

"There are bootmarks, but most of them have been obscured by the horse shoes. The horse was obviously upset," Sherlock observed.

"Straker and Simpson wear the same boot size," Gregory told him. "We searched the ground for a hundred feet all around, but could find no other footprints of either man or horse. The ground is too hard. There is another bit of information that has recently come to our attention though. A bunch of gypsies were seen camping in this area that night. I have a bulletin out for their caravans."

Sherlock sat back on his heels and steepled his fingers under his chin. "I remember Colonel Ross liked dogs," he said. "Does he still have them?"

"Yes," Gregory shrugged. "Is that important?"

"Exceedingly so," Sherlock whispered, staring off into the sky. "Very curious. The curious incident of the dog in the night time."


	23. Chapter 23

John and Inspector Gregory stood back and watched Sherlock think. The detective was still crouched on his heels, staring at the sky. He had his fingers steepled beneath his chin. Hamish wasn't interested in his father's deductions, but was fascinated by Inspector Gregory's beard. He stared at it in wonder, and reached out a little hand to try and touch it. John brushed his hand down, but the Inspector chuckled.

"I'm not sure if you remember," the Inspector said to John, "but we met at the kid's funeral." He tilted his head towards Sherlock.

"Oh, uh, I'm sorry," John replied. "I really don't remember meeting anyone. That was a bad day."

"Aye," Gregory agreed. "I never believed any of that fraud business; I watched him grow up. The kid's a bloody pain in the arse, and he's not quite normal, but he's usually right."

"Inspector!" Sherlock suddenly yelled, springing to his feet. "Tell Colonel Ross not to withdraw Silver Blaze from the race. His horse will be at the starting line."

Inspector Gregory snorted. "And what about Simpson?" he asked. "Did he kill Straker?"

"Mmmm," Sherlock muttered. "I'll have to ask the horse."

Inspector Gregory shook his head and turned to leave. He nodded goodbye to John and headed for his police car.

"So now what?" John asked Sherlock. "Where is the horse? Did the gypsies take him?"

"And put him in their caravan between the kitchenette and the sofa that doubles as a bed?" Sherlock scoffed. "Of course not, they have nothing to do with this. They only left the area to avoid being pestered by the police. They probably bet more money than you did on Silver Blaze, and if they saw him they would return him immediately."

"Maybe they bet on Desborough," John shrugged.

Sherlock had walked up out of the slight depression the crime scene was in to the top of a hill. He scanned the countryside for a moment, then strode purposefully towards another low spot, a couple hundred feet away.

"Inspector Gregory is a decent officer," he said, "but if he could only put together all of his clues, he would be able to solve some cases. Yes, the ground is too hard for footprints, except in the natural low-lying areas. Look, the horse's footprints!"

"Impressive," John smiled. "That's pretty clever. Brilliant, really."

Sherlock flashed a grin and ran uphill to find the next depression with a set of footprints. John hurried after him.

"Dog!" yelled Hamish, pointing at a sheepdog a ways off, driving a small herd of sheep. Two of the sheep in the back of the herd were limping."

"Very good," John told Hamish. "And those are sheep. Say sheep?"

"Sheep," Hamish replied, a little unsure of the new word.

"Lame sheep," Sherlock whispered. "That explains a lot. And yet leads to more questions." He ran down to the next depression in the ground and found more prints from the horse.

"What's in this direction?" John asked. "Where was the horse headed?"

"Back towards Colonel Ross' stable, of course," Sherlock answered. "A horse is an intelligent animal. If it finds itself alone, it will naturally head towards home."

They reached the next depression, and along with the horse's prints, there were footprints of a man's boot.

"Look," Sherlock pointed at the boot impressions. "Someone found the horse and started leading him, still going towards Colonel Ross'."

"So Colonel Ross has his horse?" John exclaimed. "Then why is he still claiming it's missing?"

"There are three theories that could explain that," Sherlock answered. "I need more data."

The detective paused again to think. Hamish was squirming and whining in John's arms, so he took the toddler away from the footprints and set him down.

"You can't play in evidence," John explained, half jokingly.

Hamish happily scampered around the ground, stopping to look at interesting weeds or bugs. John stood back, looking between the detective and the little boy. Then he looked down at his feet and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Hey, Sherlock," John called, pointing at the ground beneath him. "There are more prints over here, both horse and man. They're going in the opposite direction."

Sherlock jumped up and ran over to John, then stared in the direction the footprints were headed.

"Oh, that's good, that's very good," he laughed. "John, you've saved us the trouble of doubling back."

"What's in that direction?" John asked.

"One of the meanest, most vile men in the county," Sherlock answered. "He is a coward, a liar, and a bully. I am not the only boy he chased away with a horse whip." Sherlock spun around and rubbed his hands in glee. "And now I have him. He won't be able to get out of this."

He started to run off, but John held him back.

"Sherlock, if this man is so dangerous, we can't take Hamish with us."

Sherlock stopped and pouted, but he didn't argue. He looked between Hamish and the direction the horse had been led.

"John, take Hamish back to the house," Sherlock said. "I can handle this alone. Oh, this will be fun."

"Are you sure?" John asked.

"Yes, yes," Sherlock answered, impatiently. "This won't take long. And don't say anything my brother."

Sherlock was practically bouncing with glee. John took Hamish's hand to start leading the little boy back to the Holmes estate. John expected Sherlock to catch up with them as they walked back, as Hamish kept pausing to look at interesting things, but they reached the house with no sign of the detective. Mycroft was sitting alone on the patio with a cup of tea, typing into his Blackberry.

"Did you find the horse?" Mycroft asked.

"I didn't see a horse," John answered. "By the way, who lives in that direction?"

"Master Capleton," Mycroft replied. "He owns Desborough." Mycroft leaned back and arched an eyebrow at John. John quickly gathered Hamish up and headed to their room.

Sherlock returned just after John placed Hamish in the crib. The detective looked quite smug, but refused to explain what had happened at the Capleton estate.

"The horse says Simpson is innocent of murder," was the only statement he made, as he sent a text to Inspector Gregory. John gave up trying to get any more information and went to bed.

OOO

"Out, out, out, out!"

John blinked his eyes and yawned. He blearily looked at the clock on the nightstand, it was barely after 7 in the morning. From the yelling coming from the other bedroom, however, it was obvious Hamish was wide awake.

"Oooouuuuuttttt!" the little boy screamed.

John sighed and climbed out of bed. As he stumbled to the other bedroom, he could hear the shower running in the ensuite bathroom. He wondered if Sherlock had even gone to bed; the detective usually slept all morning when he wasn't on a case.

When he saw John, Hamish held up his arms, wanting to be lifted out of the crib.

"Out!" Hamish demanded again.

John frowned and folded his arms. "Say please."

"Please out!" Hamish screamed.

"It's a start," John sighed, and lifted Hamish out of the crib.

OOO

John was glad that he was able to feed Hamish breakfast in a corner of the kitchen, rather than the dining room, as the little boy was definitely not on his best mealtime behavior. He demanded to stand on a wooden chair, and he smeared oatmeal on the counter top rather than eating it.

It was still quite early, but caterers had already started to arrive to prepare displays and set up for the party. They all thought Hamish was adorable, and stopped to smile at the little boy. John did not find their distractions helpful to feeding a toddler breakfast.

John was scowling and holding a spoonful of oatmeal when Sherlock walked into the kitchen.

"Play, Dad!" Hamish said, smiling and reaching out for Sherlock.

"Eat, Hamish!" John responded.

"Please play," Hamish tried.

"Aha!" Sherlock exclaimed. "He said your magic word, John." Sherlock lifted the little boy out of the chair, who giggled happily.

"Eat your breakfast in peace, Doctor," Sherlock said, swiping John's toast and taking a large bite of it. "Hamish and I will be playing."

John threw up his arms in defeat. "Fine, you'll be in the nursery?" he asked.

"No, unless my brother is a complete arse, there is a playground in the east garden."

With some fresh toast and a large cup of coffee, John made his way to the east side of the house. He discovered a raised deck, overlooking a very elaborate playground. It was built as a large wooden castle, with swings, slides, ladders, and tunnels. Hamish and Sherlock were chasing each other around the playground, both laughing merrily.

"He's laughing," came a soft voice, which made John jump in surprise. He turned around to see Mrs. Holmes step out onto the deck.

"Its been so many years since I've heard him really laugh," she continued.

"Good morning, ma'am," John said, not quite sure how to respond to her comment. "Happy birthday."

Violet Holmes smiled at him. "He spent a lot of time learning when and how to mimic "normal" human emotions," she explained. "He's actually quite a good actor. Did you know that he can cry on demand? But I always thought he had trouble with laughter. It just never sounded happy to me."

"We are happy," John replied. Mrs. Holmes arched an eyebrow at him, and he blushed deeply.

"No, no – I didn't mean like that," John tried to explain. "I meant – ah, we're happy as a family, but…" He gave up and sighed.

Mrs. Holmes chuckled softly. "Relax, dear," she said. "Its quite obvious you are not in a sexual relationship with my son."

John, still blushing, just raised his cup of coffee to her in thanks and took a drink.

"That's what I wanted for my birthday," Mrs. Holmes said. "To know that my children are happy. Not an easy thing to accomplish, when you look at my sons. Mycroft tried to assure me that Sherlock was quite happy, but dear Mycroft is such a good liar."

John couldn't help but notice the pride in her voice.

"I am well aware of Sherlock's past," she continued. "I am afraid it may be my fault."

"I doubt that," John interrupted, but she cut him off.

"Sherrinford and Mycroft were perfect English gentlemen from the moment they were born," she said. "Sherlock was loud and clumsy and hyperactive and obsessive and demanding. His father gave up on trying to deal with him, and I myself grew tired as well. I tried not to let him know." She smiled sadly as she watched Sherlock and Hamish playing. "The three of you make a wonderful family."

"Thank you," John answered.

"Sherlock will likely spend the entirety of my party sulking," Mrs. Holmes stated, pulling herself up. "I will introduce you to his cousin Phillippa. She gets quite flirtatious after only one or two drinks."

Mrs. Holmes flashed John a grin and a wink, before turning and leaving the deck. John blushed again, and headed down to the playground.

"This is pretty nice," John said to Sherlock, admiring the wooden castle.

"My brother is still a complete arse," Sherlock shrugged.

"I'm not going to argue with you," John answered, helping Hamish climb up to a slide.

"This was originally built for Sherrinford and Mycroft, before I was even born," Sherlock explained. "They were both very dull children, and didn't know how to play on it properly. It's a good thing I came along to appreciate it."

"I'm sure Errol and Enola use it now," John suggested.

"Possibly," Sherlock shrugged. He pointed to a grove of trees. "I used to have a treehouse in those woods. The gardener said they had to remove it a few years ago, it had fallen into disrepair and they were afraid the children might get hurt on it."

"I always wanted a tree house," John said. "My neighborhood didn't have big trees though. We built a clubhouse in a dry creek bed."

"For my twelfth birthday I was given two beehives," Sherlock continued. "The gardener says they are still here, along with three more. He's been caring for them since I left." He looked down at Hamish and frowned. "We should have constructed a child size bee suit for him. Maybe if we just put a hood over him, and then taped the bottom shut –"

"Or maybe I can watch him here while you go say hello to your old friends," John interrupted.

"The life span of a queen bee is only three to four years, John," Sherlock explained, giving John a confused look. "Drones may live for a few months, workers even less. I have never met these bees. Even if I had, they would not recognize me. Insects do not form attachments to humans –"

"Ok, ok," John held up his hands. "Go see the bees. Hamish and I will be here, or in the nursery."

Sherlock nodded to John, and placed a kiss on Hamish's curly head before heading off to find the gardener and a bee suit.

OOO

Hamish and John were playing in the nursery with Errol and Enola when Sherlock returned from visiting the hives. He flopped onto the sofa and began a long description of his observations. John only halfway listened, mostly to ensure he didn't hear the words "hive", "roof", and "Baker Street" in the same sentence. He'd read an article about the growing hobby of urban beekeeping recently. He'd quickly thrown that page of the paper in the trash bin before Sherlock got any ideas.

Errol was jealous of Hamish, who was too young to attend the party and would get to stay in the nursery all night. Enola was excited to see her mother. John was too confused to know whether to be excited for or to dread the party.

Julia, the children's nanny, arrived in the afternoon to help Errol and Enola get dressed up. She was a bit short and plump, but she had a warm smile and laughed happily with both children as she brushed out their hair and smoothed their clothes. John handed over Hamish so he could go get dressed, and Hamish didn't mind a bit.

John wondered if Hamish was too young to have separation anxiety, or if he was just going to skip that phase. Mrs. Hudson usually watched the child, but he had also been left with Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft, Sarah, Dimmock, and once even Angelo when a sudden development in a case occurred. Being left with different sitters at random times was a normal part of life for Hamish.

"Coming?" John asked Sherlock. Sherlock groaned loudly and pouted, but followed John to their rooms to get ready for the party.


End file.
